


Snapshots From An Accidental Bonding

by Citation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious consent as both characters are drugged, M/M, Omega Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-17 07:43:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11271102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citation/pseuds/Citation
Summary: An undercover assignment gone wrong, a new rape drug and Greg Lestrade finds himself bonded to an enigmatic stranger. Will Greg and his new Alpha, Sherlock Holmes, be able to make it work?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank so very much to my beta Sejal!

**January 2000**

 

The _Accidental Encounters_ was crowded that night. There were patrons of all three genders moving around the club, talking, laughing. Others instead were dancing on the platform in the back of the hall, bodies moving at the sound of tasteful music.

Finally, there were patrons not interested in mingling with the others, who just sat at the tables in the back of the club, nursing a drink or smoking.

NSY Sergeant Gregory Lestrade, Greg for everyone but his very old grandfather, was among the latter. He sat on a table in the corner, keeping a discreet eye on what was going on around him. He wasn’t there for pleasure, but on a recon mission for his division.

There was a new rape drug hitting the streets of London, and one of their informants had pointed them to this club near Covent Garden. Greg and PC Dimmock had been sent undercover to check the place and look for evidence before a potential irruption.

Greg feigned to take a sip of his beer as his eyes scanned the room in search of well-known drug dealers or criminals, but he saw none. His gaze moved on the dancing platform and his breath caught in his throat.

There was a man dancing there, one of the most beautiful men Greg had ever seen.

He was tall and lean, with a riot of curly, dark hair. He wore a white button down shirt that that was open at the collar, showing an inviting patch of pale skin. His black trousers were tailored, enhancing the shape of his buttocks and legs, and the slimness of his waist. He was an Alpha, at least judging by the number of clearly-recognizable Omegas gravitating around him. But the man didn’t acknowledge their attempts to coax him to dance with one with them. He was dancing for himself, for his own pleasure; he was just enjoying the beat of the music.

Greg dragged his eyes away, feeling a tad guilty for ogling an Alpha man when his wife was waiting for him at home. It wasn’t he didn’t love Miriam. He did, very much so. It was just that sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder how his life could have been if instead of falling in love with a Beta woman, he had instead fallen for an Alpha. He wondered what it would have felt like to be bonded, to share that mysterious tie that Omegas could only have with Alphas.

Shaking away that useless thought, Greg returned to focus on his job. He was about to stand up and wander a bit around, when the back door opened and a familiar man entered the club.

 _Bingo!_ he thought as he recognized Andrew Miles, a drug dealer, usually active in Croydon. 

Miles walked toward two other men the Sergeant couldn’t recognize and they began to talk in hushed tones. Trying not to attract their attention, Greg took out his mobile and snapped a few photos of the trio. The light was awful, but it was the best he could do. He sent a text to Dimmock, who was patrolling the front hall of the club, asking him to come in the back room.

Then Miles and the others were joined by another unknown man, who led them toward the less luminous area of the room.

Greg stood up, waved between the other patrons, trying not to lose his targets, all the while thinking, _Where the hell is Dimmock?_ Finally he spotted Miles and the others near a wall covered with colourful drapes. One of the men pushed the drapes away, revealing an opening in the wall. He watched the men slip inside and let the drapes fall, covering the narrow opening again.

Greg looked quickly around, searching Dimmock’s face among the crowd, but there was no sight of him.

 _Damn,_ he thought. He would have to follow them alone. He checked his gun was still at his side and slipped inside the drapes-covered opening. It was a badly lit, narrow corridor,  possibly leading to the club cellars.

A few steps later his suspicions were confirmed, as he found a staircase leading down. Greg hesitated; he could still go back, find Dimmock and return with reinforcements. But if he was wrong, if Miles and the others had nothing compromising on them, the whole operation would be a failure. He first needed to take a look at what was happening down there.

A noise like the one of a door being opened and shut forced his hands; he slowly went down the stairs until he reached the bottom and found himself in the cellar. The place was filled with boxes, crates and racks of beer bottles, but there was no one.

 _Shit,_ Greg mused with irritation, _there must to be a door somewhere, leading to another room. But it’s the light is so scarce and-_

He never completed the thought, because a deep voice shouted, “Watch your back!”

Greg whirled around, his hand running to his gun, but it was too late. Andrew Miles hit him on the head with an empty bottle and everything went dark.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Awareness returned slowly, first in the form of a splitting head ache, then with a sense of general discomfort and too much warmth.

Groaning, Greg pushed himself off the dusty floor and sat up. He looked around and immediately noticed the room he was in was bigger than the club cellar. It was also devoid of all crates and boxes, the only furniture being an old dirty mattress, a table and a chair.

He stood up and walked to the table, removing his jacket and letting it fall on the chair. His gun was gone, but it wasn’t truly surprising. He then rolled up his shirt sleeves. He felt so warm, and he couldn’t understand why. An after effect on the blow on his head, maybe? He gingerly touched his sore scalp, finding a bump but no blood. It was a small relief.

He turned around to take a look to the rest of the room and began to walk toward the door he spotted on the opposite wall.

Greg had taken just two steps when a voice said, “Don’t come closer, Sergeant Lestrade!” It was the same deep voice that had alerted him before, and it came from a darkened corner of the room.

Greg squinted his eyes and made up the form of man sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. He realized with surprise he was the handsome Alpha he had been admiring earlier in the club.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Sherlock Holmes, and I checked your wallet while you were unconscious,” the Alpha answered, in a pleasant baritone.

 _Curious name_ , Greg thought. “You tried to warn me before.”

“With not much success.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you were a cop and I noticed that Miles had spotted you. He knew there would be a cop in the club tonight, so he decided to give you a lesson. His men entered in the corridor, but Miles stayed back, hiding behind the drapes. I noticed him follow you, so I came to alert you, but it was too late. After you went down, Miles and his men turned on me and knocked me out too.”

“You seem to know a lot of things about Miles and this place,” Greg commented, suspicious.

The Alpha shrugged, “I was keeping an eye on this place; a favour to my brother.”

“And your brother is?”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

Well, that wasn’t really an answer, but at least Greg had a name to check when he managed to get out of there.

He focused again on the door but as soon as he moved, the Alpha shouted again. “Don’t come closer!”

“Why!?” Greg snapped. “Is the place booby trapped?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered. “I’m the trap. We’re both traps.”

“What the hell does it mean?”

“Smell the air, Lestrade, don’t you smell anything off? Doesn’t seems strange that you are sweating, yet we are in a room without heating?”

Greg shook his head.

“The rape drug, Lestrade! They injected us with it. I’m going into rut and you in heat.”

Greg staggered as if he had been hit. “That’s impossible! I’m on suppressants.”

“So am I, but I can feel the start of my rut. I’m smelling you from here, and I shouldn’t be able to.”

“God,” Greg uttered, running a trembling hand over his hair.

“If you believe in that utter non-sense, you can to go in the opposite corner and start praying. It may make you feel better, but won’t stop the progression of your heat,” Holmes said with sarcasm, making a shooing gesture with one hand.

Greg wanted to retort, but the right words didn’t come to him, because a cramp in his lower belly underscored in the most emphatic way Holmes was right. Suppressants or not, he was going into heat. Locked in a room with an Alpha going into rut. A good set up for a romantic movie, but the worst nightmare for any unbonded Omega in real life.

Suppressing a shiver, he did as he was told, putting as much distance between him and the Alpha as it was possible in that bare room. He sat down in the corner with his back to the wall and asked, “How much time do you have before you lose control?”

“One hour, two at maximum.”

Greg nodded grimly. Judging by his symptoms, it was the same for him, but there was still hope. Dimmock had certainly noticed he was gone.

“I was here with a colleague; he’ll find us before we lose control.”

“You mean the young Beta with the green jacket that didn’t even notice when his mobile was stolen? That colleague?” Holmes commented in a caustic tone.

“How the hell do you know it is him?!” Greg all but exploded.

“Because I observe, Lestrade, and frankly you were dead easy to spot. Two guys, entering in the club from different doors, both wearing comfortable shoes, unassuming clothes and trying to not be noticed. The first thing you did was to look out for the other, then you went to the counter to get a beer and he paid up for a set of darts. He played and lost several times, too distracted by the opening and the closing of the door and any loud noise. You instead chose the one table that gave you a perfect visual of both the doors, the counter and the toilets. I concede you were quite good at pretending to drink, but for the rest you stuck up as a sore thumb.”

Holmes talked in such a rushed tone Greg was barely able to grasp what he said. “Well,” he commented in the end, when the other man fell silent, “you’re really good at observing, and yes, this was Dimmock’s first undercover op, but I’m confident he called for reinforcement when he realized I had disappeared. They are probably searching the place right now.”

Holmes let out a humourless laugh, “Oh, I’m sure they are indeed searching the club right now. Problem is we are no longer in the club building.”

“How can you say that, Holmes?!” Greg blurted out as another cramp made him bent forward in pain.

“Because these walls are damp with humidity and smell of a particular mould found only very close to the Thames. They moved us in a building closer to the river, and unless your colleague saw them carry us out, no one in your division will know where to look for you. Oh, by the way, I prefer Sherlock, if you don’t mind.”

“Christ...” Greg muttered, as he ran a hand on the wall and felt it was indeed very damp.

“As much as it pains me to admit it, my brother is our best hope to be found. He knows who the mole in your department is – oh, I see from your face I forgot to tell you before. Well, now you know: there is a traitor among your folds, and that’s why Miles knew there were policemen in the club.  Back to my brother...unfortunately he is dining with the PM right now, so I’m afraid his minions won’t alert him of my disappearance until after the dessert has been served. You know, all that rubbish about etiquette and protocol,” Sherlock concluded with a disgusted tone.

“So you are saying we can’t do nothing, but sit here and wait to lose our minds and jump each other?” Greg said exasperated. “What about that door?”

“Six-inch thick, reinforced steel, locked and bolted. You could try to throw it down, but you’ll only manage to bust your shoulder, raise your blood pressure and heartbeat, thus speeding up your heat.  Are you sure you want to try?”

“Arrogant sod,” Greg muttered, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. It seemed there was nothing they could but wait and hope someone would find them before it was too late.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Silence fell in the room as time passed. Greg didn’t bother to check his watch to see what time it was. It was pointless. He could feel it. His heat. It was increasing, an ever rising tide that would soon engulf him, stripping him off his reason and leaving behind only a creature mindless in its need.

His head lolled on a side and opened his eyes. He saw Sherlock was now pacing back and forth. He had removed his shirt and the sight of his bare back, of his muscles rippling under his pale, sweaty skin, made Greg almost dizzy with need.

 _Strong Alpha, beautiful Alpha,_ the Omega inside Greg moaned. He wanted to walk closer to him, to taste his exposed skin, then strip and present to him, arse high in the air, ready to be mounted. To be filled, to put an end to this unbearable feeling of emptiness...

He moaned aloud and, desperate, he bit down hard on his arm, hoping the pain would distract him from his needs.

It did not work—if possible the pain excited him even more.

Greg's confused mind finally realized he could not resist any more, the heat was escalating too quickly, too strongly. The need to mate was overwhelming and his dazed brain couldn’t understand why he was still resisting the urge of his body when, just a few feet away there was a beautiful, young, healthy Alpha, ready to satisfy his every need.

His rational part made a last desperate attempt to stop him from crossing the room and approach Sherlock. He told himself it wouldn’t be right to force his needs and the bond that would almost certainly result from their mating over a man as young as Sherlock. A man who had just tried to help him and was now in this situation because one of his colleagues had sold Greg to a drug dealer.

If they bonded, if he acted as his body pushed him to do, he would take away Sherlock’s freedom and his right to bestow his love and his bond on an Omega of his choice.

 _It would be a rape_ , Greg said to himself, hoping that harsh word would make him understand the seriousness of the act he would commit, but his need proved too strong for him to control it.

 _It won’t be a rape. He’ll burn as hot as I do_ , he thought in a haze of red fog. _I will cherish him…make him happy…I will have him_.

Greg stood up and stripped, unable to resist the feeling of constricting clothes a second longer. Then, moving as if he was in trance, like a moth toward the light, he approached Sherlock.

The Alpha was standing in the corner, facing the wall. His arms were at his sides, his hands clenched in fists. His back was so tense he looked like a marble statue, but when Greg touched it, he wasn’t met with cold smoothness, but with hot, delicious skin. And his smell...Sherlock smelled divine. Young, potent, fertile.

Greg moaned aloud and pulling the other man by the shoulders he spun him around. Sherlock snarled at him and looked at him with blown black pupils. His breathing was becoming more and more uneven by the moment. His face was flushed and sweat shone on his handsome features.

Greg knew, he absolutely knew that it would take very little to make the Alpha lose his control and mate with him...He licked his lips and murmured, “I need you, Sherlock...Need you so badly.”  He bared his neck in submission, showing his willingness to mate.

Sherlock grabbed Greg in his arms, bringing  the Omega against him. His body heat burned Greg through his trousers and when the Alpha ground his pelvis against his own, the Omega could not help but gasp in delight. Sherlock buried his face in Greg’s neck, scenting him, as his hands grabbed the Omega buttocks and probed against his opening.

It ended as quickly as it had started. Sherlock pushed Greg aside, then turned again to face the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Go away,” he said roughly.

The part of Greg what was still a bit rational was surprised and admired by Sherlock’s extreme control, but his Omega side whined in despair. He needed, he wanted...Why was the Alpha refusing to mount him?

He again took Sherlock by his shoulders and turned him around, this time gently. The younger man didn’t offer resistance. Without a word, Greg unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the dirty floor. Sherlock seemed to have fallen into some kind of trance but he weakly protested as the damp hair hit his now bare legs.

“Shhh, Sherlock...” Greg murmured.

"Go away!" The Alpha repeated, desperation barely concealed in his voice. "Leave me alone..."

Greg didn’t pay heed to the plea. His need was too strong, unbearable, all consuming. He was leaking so much he could feel his juices slide down his legs, and his cock was so hard he thought it would explode soon if it didn’t get some kind of relief.

His trembling hands grabbed the elastic of the black boxer briefs concealing the Alpha cock and pulled hard, tearing the fabric.

Sherlock moaned.

Greg moaned back at the sight of the Alpha’s hardness. Restrained by his pants, he had looked particularly well endowed. Freed from it, he was even bigger than the Omega had guessed.

His knot was already swollen and ready and the sheer size of it filled Greg with fear. He wasn’t used to such girths and lengths! The toys he used during the heats he had to bear because suppressants couldn’t be continually taken without causing health problems, weren’t so big nor were they attached to such a powerful physique.

_He will tear me apart..._

Suddenly Greg panicked. He turned around and tried to escape, but didn’t get very far.

Sherlock’s left arm came around his waist, the other around his neck and he brought Greg against him, back slammed against the living wall of his chest, the Alpha’s erect cock pressing against the Omega’s arse.

Greg cried and struggled. Sherlock’s breath was warm against his ear and he dragged Greg to the table. He pressed Greg against the wooden surface, then kicked his legs apart and before the older man could even anticipate the next movement, he rammed himself inside the Omega.

Greg’s mind screamed, yet only a strangled sound came from his throat as air left him in a rush and his hands flailed, desperately looking for something to anchor himself to.

He moaned aloud, not in pain, but in absolute delight. Why had he tried to escape Sherlock? This Alpha was perfect for him, filling him everywhere as he had never been filled before.

“Yes..” he hissed, pushing back against the Alpha, so thick, hard and deep between his legs.

They remained immobile. For a moment, there was no other sound in the room but their combined, rasping breath. Then Sherlock flexed his hips and retreated nearly all the way out of Greg’s body, tearing a whimper from his lips.

“I need...” Greg rasped...”Please.”

“Yes...” The Alpha growled, before he slammed back inside him. Once. Two. Three times. By the fourth thrust Greg came, shouting his pleasure so loudly it resounded in the empty room.

Greg’s arms gave out and he almost fell, face down against the table, but Sherlock grabbed him and pulled him back against his chest. His hip were still pistoning in and out of Greg, and the Omega could feel another orgasm building.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he spurred Sherlock, pushing back against his increasing stronger thrusts, until finally the Alpha’s knot breached his body.

The feel of that flesh pressing against all his right places all at once was so exquisite, the warmth of the Alpha’s seed bathing his channel so soothing and the pleasure of his second climax so encompassing, that Gregory Lestrade barely registered the pain at his neck when strong teeth broke the skin there.

He fell forward and fainted.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Greg woke up feeling weak and slightly nauseous.

 It took him a while to focus enough to understand that he was laying in bed in a hospital room. When he did, he looked around the room for the buzzer, wanting to call a nurse, and ask why he was there.

He turned on his side and his eyes posed over a man sitting by the bed.

It was a Beta, tall, with receding auburn hair, a prominent nose and laser sharp eyes. He was dressed in a three piece brown suit that probably cost more than Greg made in a month and was twirling an umbrella in his hand.

“Who are you?” he croaked, in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

“My name is Mycroft Holmes; I’m Sherlock’s older brother, Sergeant Lestrade,” replied the man.

Sherlock...Suddenly the memories of what had happened the previous night – if it was the previous night, that is – returned to him, overwhelming him with the strength of an avalanche.

He remembered the stake out in the club, the ambush by Andrew Miles, his despair when he realized he was going into heat...and then his advances, his begging, Sherlock’s incredible resistance against his Alpha’s instincts...and then fullness and pleasure and....pain.

Greg’s eyes widened in shock as he raised a trembling hand to touch his neck. The skin over his scent gland was broken, swollen and sore.

“Oh God...” he said, his breathing coming in hurried puffs, as the monitor connected to his heart started beeping alarmingly fast.

“Calm down, Sergeant. We need to talk and if the nurses see you like that, they will throw me out.”

“Yes....yes, of course,” Greg replied, trying to slow his breathing and relax. Gradually the monitor fell silent and he looked at the other man.

“I’ll plead guilty of rape,” he said with a firm voice. “Sherlock is not at fault;  I seduced him. He tried to resist as much as he could, but I was too...insistent.”

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “That’s not why I’m here. Sherlock won’t press charges. Neither of you was responsible of what happened two nights ago, but I’ll make sure the true culprits will be punished.” A small, slightly unsettling smile crossed his lips. “You’ll be happy to know we have arrested Andrew Miles and his accomplices, including Sergeant Emery, their mole in your division.”

Greg nodded. “Good.” A pause, then, “What about Sherlock...How is he?”

Mycroft put both his hand on the umbrella handle and answered, “My brother is well. He has been moved to another hospital for monitoring, until the drugs will clear from his blood. This leads me to the reason I’m here.”

Greg looked at him, half curious, half worried. Well, more worried than curious.

“As the doctors will certainly tell you later, there are good chances that the bond Sherlock established won’t take. Both your heat and his rut were chemically induced and, by what the doctors have been able to determine, you mated only once before we found you. There is only one bite on your neck, slightly off mark. This outcome would be the best for everyone involved, as my brother is not what I would call ...bondmate material.”

“I see,” Greg murmured, as he considered what he had just heard. He smiled, relieved, at the other man, but Mycroft didn’t smile back. “How ‘good’ are these chances?” he asked frowning.

“About fifty-fifty.”

Greg let himself slump against the pillow, muttering, “God!”

“The doctors’ advice for you is to continue to take suppressants for at least one year, and then try and have a natural heat and see what happens. If you will be able to ... get satisfied with the appropriate devices or with the help of another Alpha, it would mean the bond didn’t take. As for my brother, he’ll soon be on his way to Australia. He’ll be there for at least one year, to minimize any chance you could accidently meet and reinforce the bond by proximity.”

Greg nodded. It sounded like a good plan...and really what other choices he had? Bonded to a stranger and married to a woman he loved?

Still there was a thing he had to ask because, after all there was only a chance out of two the bond wouldn’t take. “What if the bond doesn’t dissolve?”

Mycroft Holmes took a folder from the bedside table and pulled out a few sheets of printed paper. “Your lawyer and I have taken steps to define your accidental bonding in a legal way.” He gave the papers to Greg. “You can read them at your leisure, but the main points are the following: one, neither you or my brother will put forward a claim on the other’s estates or financial assets; two, you won’t be able to oblige Sherlock to support any child potentially conceived during one of your heat; three, Sherlock won’t be able to oblige you to have children, or question in any way the validity of your marriage to Miriam Oswald; four, should your current marriage end for whatever reason, my brother won’t have any kind of claim on you. You’ll be able to remarry with whomever you wish, without any intermission on his side. Five, the reverse is valid for Sherlock too. I frankly doubt my brother will ever decide to marry, but should such eventuality come to pass, you won’t be able prevent it. Six, my brother will assist you in your future heats, as you will assist him in the rare eventuality he should go into rut.”

Greg nodded as each clause was announced, then read the document to check that everything he had heard matched what was printed on paper.

When he reached the end of the document, he saw that Sherlock – whose real name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes – had already signed it.

“Do you have a pen?” Greg asked and Mycroft pulled out a platinum fountain pen, which he handed him along with the folder.

Using the folder as a flat surface, Greg twice put his signature near Sherlock’s, one on his copy of the contract, the other on the Alpha’s.

Greg folded the document and put it in the bedside table drawer as silence fell in the room.

Mycroft Holmes stood up and looked down at him with serious eyes, “You don’t need to worry, Sergeant. Everything will be fine.” The Beta took a business card from his inner pocket and gave it to Greg. “This is my private number; you can reach me at any time, day and night. You can use it to let me know if you need Sherlock’s presence.”

“Okay,” Greg murmured with a nod, taking the card.

“Now I’m afraid I must go, Sergeant Lestrade. I need to interrogate Miles and Emery.”

“That’s fine. Uhm...thank you for your visit and for having took care of everything.”

Mycroft Holmes bent his head in a slight bow. “You’re welcome.”

Then he turned on the heels of his polished shoes and left the room. Greg had barely the time to put the card in his wallet, which was on his bedside table top with his watch and badge, that the door opened and Miriam rushed inside.

“Greg!” she cried, tears streaming down her face, as she embraced him. “I was so worried! Are you all right, darling?”

“Miriam...” he whispered, pulling her close to his chest and burying his nose in her hair. Then he closed his eyes, and let the warmth, scent and the love of his wife chase away his emotional turmoil.


	2. Chapter 2

**December 2001**

 

Greg turned the business card in his hand, looking at the phone number printed there. He was still struggling with what he had to do, even knowing there were no other solutions.

The bond he had formed with Sherlock Holmes two years ago hadn’t dissolved. He had discovered it the hard way the previous year, when he had come off suppressants to have a heat. Suppressants couldn’t be used indefinitely, otherwise they caused heart and kidneys problem. Greg usually had a heat every two years, but after how the rape drug had messed up with his endocrinal system, his doctor had advised him to have one after just one year.

It had been a nightmare. None of the toys he had found so satisfying during previous heats had been able to quench his need to be filled. He had become fevered and delirious, begging his wife to find him a surrogate Alpha.

Miriam had done so, but it had been even worse. Greg had screamed until he lost his voice at the pain penetration caused him; the Alpha’s precome had burned like molten lava and he had fainted because of the shock.

When he had regained consciousness, he found himself at the hospital, wearing off a strong dose of sedatives. Then a prim and slightly disgusted Omega doctor had given him a lecture about what a foolishness had been to go to an Alpha that wasn’t his bonded. Didn’t he knew, the haughty doctor had asked, that the whole biological point of bonding was to make sure the Omega couldn’t mate with anyone but their Alpha? So that the Alpha would be sure the resulting progeny was theirs and protect and care for it with all of their being? What Greg had done during sexual education lessons? Slept? Done crosswords?

Greg had barely refrained from punching the doctor and later returned home with the strict instructions that he would never again try to bear a heat without his bonded Alpha, because this time he had been lucky, but the strain on his heart and vascular system had been serious and it wasn’t certain he could bear another unfulfilled heat without permanent damages.

So now Greg found himself having to place the phone call he had hoped would never be necessary.

Taking a deep breath, he composed the number and waited.

But not for long, as Mycroft Holmes answered after just one ring.

_“Good morning, Sergeant Lestrade.”_

Greg frowned. “How did you know it was me?”

_“Because I made sure to have your number memorized after I left you at the hospital.”_

“Ah. So I guess there is no need to ask you if you remember me.” Greg was relieved for not having to remind the man what had happened with his brother.

_“No, there isn’t. I assume this phone call is to let me know you need to see Sherlock.”_

“Yes...The bond didn’t dissolve. I- I had a terrible time earlier this year, during my heat. It unequivocally proved I need your brother’s...help. So if you would kindly let him know I need to talk with him, I would be very grateful.” _There_ Greg thought, _I did it and it wasn’t too difficult_.

_“I see. Are you in heat again?”_

“No, but I need to set the time for my next one. As I spent the last one mostly sedated, it didn’t really help with my hormone balance. So I need to have one soon, before I can hopefully return to my former schedule of one heat every two years.”

_“You’ve been quite clear, Sergeant. Take the afternoon off; Sherlock will come to visit you and you’ll discuss all the pertinent details with him.”_

“All right,” Greg nodded to himself. Miriam was away to visit her parents in Yorkshire, so they would have the privacy they needed.

 _“If this is all, Sergeant Lestrade, I’ve a briefing to attend-”_ Mycroft said.

“Wait! You don’t know where I live!”

The other man let out a short laugh. _“Don’t I, Lestrade?”_ A pause. _“You see, I worry about my brother- constantly. I made sure to know everything about the Omega who is now his mate. We know where to find you.”_

Greg heard the call close and remained there, staring at the silent phone, wondering who the hell Mycroft Holmes was and what exactly was his job.

Then he took a deep breath and thought, _Well, it has been embarrassing._ But not as embarrassing as it would be to meet Sherlock again and discuss the most intimate details of his life with him, a stranger for all intent and purposes.

Greg had his fair share of one-night stands before he married, but this was different. This wasn’t a guy he would never see again after a shag. Sherlock Holmes was _his_ Alpha, his bonded mate until death parted them, and he knew very little about him.

True, Greg had run some discreet researches at the office. He had researched both the Holmes brothers, but didn’t find much beyond their academic achievements.

Sherlock had been born in 1977 in Sussex and had been home schooled. He had then graduated at top of his class in Chemistry at Cambridge, and had a master in Pharmaceutical Chemistry at Oxford. After Uni, he had worked  for a big pharmaceutical firm, before dropping the job after only eight months. Since then he had published a few articles on scientific publications, and lived off a very sizable trust fund. Greg had snorted upon reading it: no wonder the first clause in their ‘contract’ had made clear he couldn’t put his hands over Sherlock's money!

However, these cold facts didn’t tell anything about the man his Alpha was. Yes, he had been so arrogant that night, but he had also been pumped with chemicals and locked in a room with an Omega in heat. Who knew how he really was in a non-stressful situation?

He phoned his office and said he was sick, taking a day of leave. Then, to prevent over thinking and anxiety, Greg decided to clean the flat, which was a bit of a mess with Miriam away.

He scrubbed, dusted and tidied until he was satisfied everything was in order. Then, he took a long, relaxing shower, put on his most comfortable suit and waited. He was too nervous to eat.

At precisely 2.00 PM the door bell rang. Greg took a deep breath and went to open.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him dressed in an elegant dark Belstaff coat and a blue scarf around his neck. He had dark, curly hair, a face that while not being classically beautiful was extremely attractive, and lovely, almond shaped, changeable eyes. He was undeniably handsome, just as he had been two years before, when Greg had admired him dancing.

“May I come in?” Sherlock asked with his nice baritone voice.

“Of course,” Greg answered, moving aside to let him pass, as he silently cursed himself for having been staring.

He led Sherlock to the living room and asked, “Can I offer you something? Tea, coffee, orange juice...something stronger?”

“Coffee, black, two sugar,” came the answer as Sherlock walked around the room.

Greg’s eyebrow climbed at the lack of “thank you” or “please”, but he didn’t comment. He went to the kitchen to prepare the coffee and when it was ready took it to the other man in the living room.

Sherlock was standing near the corner table he used as desk when he worked at home, looking out of the window at the shared garden.

He took the cup of coffee with a murmured thank you and drank from it. A few moment later, as the silence started grating on Greg’s nerves, the Alpha commented. “This is a nice flat, Lestrade. Of course you let things slide while your wife is away, and you worked all morning to restore some order – not completely successfully, I’m afraid as I can see a stain on the table caused by the beer  bottle you forgot there two, no, three nights ago. Nevertheless, it’s a very nice place, almost worth the high rent you pay. However, you would like to move, but your wife likes this area, and so you keep staying here by saving money where you can.”

Greg’s mouth opened in surprise, then he uttered outraged, “How the hell do you know all of this? Are you spying on me?”

Sherlock scoffed, then sighed. “I told you that night, Lestrade: I observe.” He gestured with his hand toward the ceiling. “I can smell three different detergents in the air: one specific for kitchen appliances, one for bathroom cleaning, and one for wooden surfaces. Their smell disappears in four hours, tops; conclusion, they were used this morning.

Greg nodded, “Right. And what about my wife? How can say she is away?”

“There is an open bottle of vitamins on the kitchen table, specific for females, with a slight layer of dust over it, meaning it hasn’t been touched in about five days. That brand is quite expensive and expires in just one month after opening, so it’s unlikely your wife opened it and then forgot about it. I believe she took with her the pills she needed during her trip and left the bottle home.”

 _Right again_ , Greg thought, reluctantly impressed by the other man’s observations. “And the rent?”

Sherlock smirked. “The invoice of the rent payment in on your desk, along with a newspaper opened on the houses for rent ads section. You have circled a few ads with a green marker, and I’m ready to bet all those places cost less than this one. But as you were doing it, you looked at your wife’s photo, the one you have on the corner of the desk and stopped. There is a slight smudge of green on the frame, suggesting you pulled it closer and stained it with the open marker. Perhaps when you moved here, the rent wasn’t so high. Perhaps you thought you would be promoted and have a pay rise, but right now you are saving money as much as you can. There is nothing in this flat that hasn’t been bought at least three years ago, including your clothes and shoes.”

Greg withheld his breath. The other man was completely right, but having been reminded of not having yet made to inspector was blow below the belt and it made him less than happy to listen to more observations.

“Well,” he finally commented with a sigh, “I think that’s enough chit-chat. We have a pressing matter to discuss.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, your heat. So, how do you suggest we deal with this nuisance of yours?”

“Nuisance?!” Greg burst out, outraged by hearing the most intimate event in Omegas’ lives being called so.

“How would you call it? It’s a useless loss of time! No, don’t look at me it that way. I think the same of Alphas’ ruts. Biology is dull and annoying,” Sherlock explained, and he sounded so much like a petulant boy that Greg calmed down.

“It may be so, but unfortunately it’s also necessary, so if you don’t mind I would like to have my next heat during the last week of January. Would it be fine for you?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” That said, he put the empty coffee cup he was still holding on the table and walked toward the door.

“Hey!” Greg called, following him. “We still have to discuss the details! Such as where we’ll meet...”

“Boring!” Sherlock stopped near the door and gave him a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. “That’s my number. Call me when you are ready to proceed. I’ve no preference about the place, but I would like for it to be clean and with no other people around. And now I got to dash. I left a culture of mould unsupervised, and I hope those idiots at Bart’s didn't throw it away.” He winked at Greg and then was out of the door before the Omega could even think of a reply.

When the door close, Greg ran a hand on his face and wondered what kind of madman he had bonded with.

 

** Interlude **

****

_“Take me...” Greg begged, spreading his legs as much as he could. “Take me...I need...”_

_“As you wish, my Omega,” Sherlock growled, sliding into position between his legs, his Alpha cock hard and leaking and ready for him._

_And then he thrust._

_Greg gasped in relief as he was filled, the first plunge stretching his body until he felt that he would break, before his body adapted with marvellous quickness._

_Sherlock plunged deep, drew away, then plunged back, his thrusts long and powerful. He was rough, but not violent and the friction between their joined bodies caused Greg to writhe in exquisite pleasure._

_He liked to be claimed in this way- to bear the full brunt of his Alpha’s power, but knowing that the other man was ultimately servicing him, quenching the need he felt as an Omega, to be mounted, to be filled, to be bred..._

_Greg came with a loud groan, his hot seed splashing on his chest. He panted and opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, who had pulled out of him and was staring down at him with lust-filled eyes._

_Greg was still needy, still unsatisfied and the sensation of his Alpha’s cock lying hot and hard on his belly and not inside him made him growl in displeasure._

_"More,” he  demanded, arching against Sherlock, undulating his hips, rubbing against him, urging the Alpha back inside him._

_Sherlock groaned deep in his chest, as if in warning. Then he flexed his hips and pushed himself back into Greg._

_They cried in unison and Greg saw Sherlock clench his teeth, struggling to prevent himself from coming... It felt so good to be filled again, to feel that hot, hard length press against all of his right spots. After a long moment, Sherlock dug his fingers into the Omega’s hips and started his rhythmic pumping, increasing his speed, slowing it, rotating his hips, groaning and panting._

_Abandoned in his Alpha's powerful hold, dizzy with the pleasure his relentless, powerful stroking was giving him, Greg forgot everything and gave himself to the man who rocked against him. Nothing existed but him, so long, thick and hard between his legs. He arched against him, trying to take him even more deeply, and finally he felt Sherlock’s knot breach him._

_Greg came in a white-hot rush and it was with such intensity that it was pleasure and it was pain and he felt so dizzy that he couldn't distinguish one from the other. His Alpha kept pumping inside him, keeping a punishing rhythm, until Sherlock stiffened and threw his head back, a growl of triumph escaping his flushed chest as he too climaxed._

_Exhausted, Greg went limp against the mattress and Sherlock collapsed over him, boneless. Somehow they managed to roll on their side, so they could be more comfortable while they waited for the Alpha’s knot to deflate. Then, drained, spent and satiated for a while, Greg pushed back against his Alpha’s warmth and fell asleep._

 

** January 2006  **

****

Greg turned in the bed, groaning as his sore, well-used muscles complained. The guest room, the bed and him smelled of sex, of the complex blend of his and Sherlock’s scents.

Greg sighed as he noticed that, as usual, he was alone. His bonded Alpha never stayed a moment longer than necessary after Greg’s heat ended. In a way it was like going to a Surrogate Alpha Clinic: Greg fixed a date, they did their business, and then they returned to their lives as nothing had ever happened, until two years later and his next heat.

It wasn’t ideal – as Greg would have liked a bit more tenderness and closeness during his heats, when he felt so vulnerable and needy – but given the unusual circumstances of their bonding, he felt he had no right to ask for more.

Greg couldn’t forget what had happened six years before in that locked room. _He_ had approached Sherlock. _He_ had undressed the Alpha. _He_ had ignored the younger man’s desperate warnings.

Greg couldn’t help but wonder if Sherlock’s coldness, the fact he never stayed or renewed his bonding bite was due to the fact the Alpha resented him. Maybe, despite Mycroft Holmes’ belief his brother wasn’t interested in bonding, Sherlock had instead wanted to. Maybe he had planned to bond with an Omega he loved, and Greg had taken away that chance for good.

Greg sighed and turned again in the bed. He should rise and get a shower, but he was feeling lazy. Miriam wouldn’t return before two days – she always went to her parents when he was in heat, as they didn’t know how Sherlock would react to her presence – he was still in heat leave, and there was plenty of time to clean up.

He was about to close his eyes and return to sleep when a noise alerted him he wasn’t alone. Frowning, he pushed back the covers, put on his bathrobe and ran out of the room.

His eyes widened at the sight that greeted him in the kitchen. Sherlock was there, completely naked but for a small towel around his hips. He was eating a toast and reading some papers spread over the table.

Greg looked at him, stunned. During the three heats – four, if he counted the one triggered by the drug – they had spent together, he had never had the chance to take a good look at the Alpha while his mind was clear.  Sherlock always arrived when Greg was already in the throes of need, when the only thing that mattered to him was how quickly his Alpha would ram his cock inside him.

Now however, Greg was calm and lucid, so he took his fill.

His Alpha was a beautiful man. A bit too thin, but beautiful. He wasn’t heavily muscled as the other Alphas Greg had slept with, nor he was very broad shouldered. Yet there was a pleasant definition in the muscles of his chest, and proportion between his shoulders and his hips made him look broader than he actually was. He was pale all over, his chest covered by just a smattering of dark hair. His legs were long and strong, with the lean muscles of a swimmer and his arms...Greg frowned when he saw the bruises in the crook of his left elbow.

Greg had seen too many of those bruises not to recognize them for what they were: track marks.

“Don’t be worried,” Sherlock said without raising his eyes from his reading, “I never share needles and I only use medical grade morphine or cocaine. I won’t give you any disease.”

Well, that was reassuring, but up to a point. “High grade or not, those things could kill you,” he commented.

Sherlock raised his eyes to look briefly at him, “Then you would be rid of me.”

Gred glared back at him, but didn’t reply. Instead he went to make some  tea and  toast for himself. As he worked, a sudden thought crossed his mind, “That’s why do you do it?”

“What?” Sherlock turned around to look at him. “Do what?”

“The drugs: are they a way to escape...our situation? To cope with the fact you won’t be able to bond with an Omega of your choice?”

Sherlock raised his hand in dismissal, “Oh, shut up, Lestrade. It has nothing to do with it. I never planned to get involved with anyone. Emotions, feelings...not my area. This,” he gestured to his half naked body, “is just transport. My mind is the only important thing.”

“Your mind?”

“Yes, my precious brain.”

“Then why do you use? Aren’t drugs dangerous for your mind?” Greg asked, trying to understand this puzzling human being.

“Huff,” Sherlock snorted. “Of course you don’t understand. Your ordinary mind can’t comprehend what is like to have a brain like mine. I hate being bored. I need challenges, intellectual stimulation. If I can’t find it, I use cocaine. Other times, I just need this dull world, full of dull people with their dull lives and voices to shut up. There is when morphine comes handy.”

Greg stared speechless, shocked. This was as a meaningful conversation as he had hoped he would one day have with his Alpha, but it certainly wasn’t what he had hoped to discover about the younger man.

“It was the chef, by the way,” Sherlock said out of the blue in the uncomfortable silence that followed his words.

“What?” Greg asked, dumbfounded.

“The woman dead of hypothermia in the sauna: the chef killed her.”

It was then that Greg realized what Sherlock had been reading with such interest: a case report he had brought home to study before his heat began.

“You shouldn’t be reading that,” he admonished.

“You’re probably right,” Sherlock answered munching the crust of the toast, “but it still was the chef.”

Greg sighed and went near his Alpha, looking down at the forensic reports, statements and crime scene photos. The case pertained the death of Helene Sangster, a hotel owner found dead in said hotel sauna. Cause of death: hypothermia. As if it wasn’t enough, all the people involved- relatives, workers and guests – had an alibi, and none of them had a convincing motive for the murder. It had happened two months before and since then Greg had tried to crack the case without any luck.

“Jonathan Larner has an alibi,” Greg commented, pulling the chef’s statement closer. “We checked him because he had access to the walk-in freezer of the hotel, which, as you see is close to the kitchen, but also accessible without needing to enter the kitchen. But, as I said, he has an alibi. He was preparing a  sauce for a working lunch later that day, one requiring constant supervision. His kitchen aides confirmed it. They all stated there was no sauce the previous night, so he must have prepared it that morning.”

“According to this,” Sherlock replied pointing at the document, “he was preparing a  Besciamella, an Italian sauce which burns very easily if it isn’t constantly stirred. Now, look at the photos taken in the sauna, where the body was found. Do you see that little piece of green paper with the burnt edges? Here, use the bottom of this glass as magnifying lenses.”

Greg did as he was told and indeed noticed the piece of paper. It was a inch long, in shades of green with two red letters visible: **_a_** and _**S**_.

He raised his eyes to Sherlock, who was looking at him with bright eyes.

“So? What there is of such interest in that piece of paper?”

“It comes from a tin can label, the label of _Besciamella Star_ , a famous Italian brand, easily found on-line and in shops stoking foreign foods.” Greg looked at him still uncomprehending and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Jonathan Larner didn’t cook any sauce that morning! He just heated up some canned one. This is what I believe it happened...Oh keep in mind this was premeditated, not a spur of the moment plan. At 7.30 AM Helene Sangster is last seen alive by the receptionist, and she looks quite nervous. Sometime later she goes to the kitchen, where the chef knocks her out and puts her in the walk-in freezer. The room temp is set to -20 C, so it doesn’t take long to kill her. Larner knew the police would suspect him, but he had a plan to fabricate himself a good alibi. Besides, as you said, the walk-in freezer has two doors, so someone else could have pushed Sangster inside it using the other door. Nevertheless, it’s necessary for his plan and alibi that the corpse is found as far as possible from him and the kitchen. He begins to prepare the Besciamella sauce, so his aides can testify he was indeed at work in the kitchen, busy with a sauce that cannot be left alone, otherwise it burns. He knows his aides will be busy arranging the garden for the working lunch, and they won’t stay long in the kitchen. When the coast is clear, the chef takes the body out of the freezer room and, with one of those big, tablecloth-covered trolleys used to bring plates and foods outdoor, he transports the body to the sauna. Then he rushes back to the kitchen, throws the burnt sauce down the drain and replaces it with the ready-made, canned one he had previously hidden somewhere.”

Greg nodded. It sounded reasonable, but he still had doubts. “What about the piece of paper?”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his bare chest and answered, “If you look at the photos your people took of the hotel backyard, you’ll see there are several bins for recycling. It was easy to make the tin cans disappear in the appropriate bin, but the chef couldn’t throw the labels in the bin for paper waste. Someone could have noticed them. So he burned them, disposing the remains down the sink drain...all but for that tiny piece of paper. It probably stuck to his clothes and fell on the victim when he grabbed her body to move it.”

“Uhm...” Greg grimaced. “It’s still weak... I don’t think it would convince a jury. That piece of paper could have fallen on the victim at any time, at any place.”

“I see...then I suppose that knowing that Jonathan Larner and Helene Sangster were closely related would help to convince your jury,” Sherlock retorted.

“Related? We checked, there was no relation between them.”

“Maybe not on records, but look at the strange shape of the victim’s earlobes. It’s a rare condition, and it’s hereditary. Now look at the chef’s earlobes: he has several earrings, but if you look closely, the shape is the same of the victim’s. Also look at the jaw line and nose...more similarities. I’m ready to bet he is her son.”

Greg looked at the photos with attention. Now that Sherlock had pointed it out, he could indeed see a resemblance between Helene Sangster and Jonathan Larner. Added to Sherlock’s plausible theory about the fake alibi, there was more than enough to dig more in the chef’s past.

“You could be right,” he finally murmured.

Sherlock smiled with superiority. “I’m right.”

Greg snorted. “I’ve a phone call to place to my team. Why don’t you dress in the meantime? But don’t go away, I may need to ask for more clarifications.”

He went to the master bedroom and called his office. Sergeant Donovan answered at the first ring.

 _“Oh, Guv, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you till Monday,”_ she said.

“Well, yeah, but I just got a hunch  about the Sangster case that it may worth to investigate.” He quickly told Donovan what Sherlock had said to him.

_“Sounds plausible, Guv. I’ll work on it and call back when I know more.”_

“Okay, Sally, thank you.”

He put down the phone and went to the bathroom to take a shower, shave and dress. He had just finished when his phone rang . He was surprised to see the call was from Donovan, because it couldn’t be more than thirty minutes since he had called her.

“Yes Sally, what is it?”

_“Guv, I just got a report. There was a murder yesterday night in Hampstead: Susan Sangster-Millford, the daughter of the late Helene Sangster was killed. The murderer was stopped by a neighbour: it’s Jonathan  Larner.”_

“The chef?!”

_“Yes. He has confessed both murders: turned out Helene Sangster was his mother, and she had abandoned him at birth, when he was still young and unmarried. He was given in adoption, and ended up in an abusive family. Last year he discovered who his biologic mother was and went to work at the hotel to discover more about her. The evening before the murder, Larner told her who he was, and what horrible life he had had because of her. They argued and she stomped away. During the night Larner decided to kill her. Knowing the menu he had to prepare for the working lunch and  that the rest of the staff would spend  most of the morning in the garden, he decided to use those fact to create his alibi. It was exactly as you said: the canned sauce, the burnt labels, the trolley...”_

Greg nodded to himself. “And what about the other murder? Why did Larner kill his half-sister?”

_“Because he was jealous of her. He had seen how their mother doted on her and he decided to kill her too.”_

“I see.”

 _“It’s a pity you didn’t get that hunch about Larner’s alibi sooner. Maybe we could have stopped him from killing again,”_ Donovan added softly.

“Yes, Sally. It’s a real pity.”

He closed the call and went to the kitchen, where Sherlock was still waiting, now fully dressed.

He gestured with his phone and said, “I just got a call, there was an update about the case. You were right: the chef was the killer and he and the victim were mother and son.”

Sherlock snorted, “See? I told you I was right.”

“Yeah...” Greg hesitated, then continued, “Listen, I could use your advice on crime scenes. You noticed things my team and I didn’t see, even after spending hours studying those photos. Had we seen them as quickly as you did, Larner wouldn’t have killed again, because we would have arrested him. So, what do you say, would you be interested in helping me? To come on the crime scenes as a sort of consultant?”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes very bright as a slow smile spread on his face. “I would love it.”

“Then I can arrange it. You’ll have to respect rules and regulations but it can be done. However,” Greg looked gravely at the younger man, “you can’t consult for NSY while you are still using. Otherwise your mere presence on the crime scene could compromise the case in court.”

“I see,” Sherlock murmured, the light in his eyes dimming. He stood up, retrieved his coat from the back of the couch and walked toward the door.

He had already opened it, when he turned around and said, “I’ll let you know.”

Then he was gone.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Three days later, while he was sitting at his desk at NSY quarters, Greg received a phone call from Mycroft Holmes.

_“Inspector, my brother is in a rehab facility in Florida. We chose it because it has the highest rate of success in the world, and I’m sure he won’t fail.”_

“Well, that’s good news,” Greg replied, feeling relieved.

 _“Indeed. He told me of your proposal and, as I occupy a minor position in the British Government, I’ll make sure Sherlock will have the right credentials to help you with your work.”_ A pause, then a very soft voice added, _“Thank you, Gregory.”_

The call ended and Greg posed the phone, a big grin on his face.

 

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

  **September 2008**

 

The first corpse had been discovered in Tottenham Hale in May. A female Beta with a slashed throat had been found lying in a pool of coagulated blood in one alley. The killer had used black nail polish to paint random numbers on her cheeks, had folded her arms on her chest, and painted her fingernails with the same polish.

Since then, four other Betas, three men and one woman, had been killed in the same way, with the most recent body found by a passerby in Mayfair that morning.

The case had ended up on Greg’s desk after the DI that been investigating the murders so far had been removed.

“We need to catch this bastard quickly, Lestrade,” the superintended had said, handing him the thick case folder. “The press is tearing us apart, and the Commissioner is calling every other day.”

“I’ll do my best, Sir,” Greg had answered, and he had immediately set to work.

Unfortunately, he and his team hadn’t be able to discover anything new. “The Beta Slayer”, as the press had dubbed the serial killer, was always very careful not leave evidence on the bodies. Also, being a Beta was the only characteristic the victims had in common. All the rest was different: age, sex, body types, life style. It made very difficult to profile the killer.

The Mayfair murder was the first one Greg investigated in person after having being assigned the case and, given the seriousness of the situation and the complete lack of leads, he had not hesitated to ask for Sherlock's help. The Alpha was currently kneeling near the body, examining every inch of the victim with his pocket magnifying lens.

It wasn’t the first time that his Alpha had consulted for the Met. After he had returned from Florida, clean and sober and looking tanned and healthy, Greg had kept his word and called him on several crime scenes.

Unfortunately, the outcomes had been mixed. Oh, Sherlock had always nailed the guilty party quickly – and Greg’s team solve rate had greatly benefited from it – but his behaviour with the witnesses, the victims’ relatives, and Greg’s own team had been...not very good.

Sherlock had no tact. He had no inclinations in respecting social conventions, or other people’s grief. He was blunt, sarcastic and caustic. He had no qualms in calling people idiots, Greg included, if they didn’t grasp the meaning of his deductions at once. He also behaved like a spoiled child: if the case wasn’t challenging enough for his mind, he refused to work on it. On the contrary, if the case was really intricate, he became almost giddy with excitement, grinning to himself and making comments such “Oh, but this is so delightful!” or “Is this my birthday present?” .

Greg’s team didn’t like Sherlock. Donovan and Anderson had made it clear several times; they believed the Alpha was a psychopath, and Sherlock encouraged them, calling himself a high-functioning sociopath.

This was why now Greg called Sherlock on crime scenes only when he was out of his depth and in desperate need of help—like now.

Greg returned to the present to see Sherlock stand up and walk determined toward him.

“I need to see the photos and autopsy reports of the other victims. See you at your office, ” he said as he walked past Greg, never slowing down his pace as he walked toward a nearby cab.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Ninety minutes later, at the Met headquarters, Sherlock looked at Anderson, who was standing sullenly near Greg and exclaimed, “You’re a complete, utter imbecile!”

Anderson’s fists clenched and he said in threatening tone, “How dare you?!”

“I do because it’s the truth! How couldn’t you see that this,” Sherlock gestured with a hand to indicate the forensic reports spread on the desk, “isn’t the work of a single murderer? There are five different killers!”

“Bollocks!” Anderson snapped back, “there is just one killer! The numbers written on the victims’ cheeks are always the same. As we never told about them to the press, there is no way we can have copycat murders.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking of copycat murders. I’m saying all of this – the painted numbers and nails, the victims laid with their arms crossed on their chest – it’s just a smokescreen.” The Alpha’s determined gaze focused on Greg as he continued, “They serve only one purpose, to distract you from looking closely at more important details.”

“Such us?” Anderson cut in, belligerent.

“The way the victims were killed.” Sherlock reached out on the desk and pulled five photos close. “Look at the slashes on their throat. In this photo, victim number one, the cut goes from left to right, indicating the killer is right handed. In this one instead, victim number three, the cut goes from right to left. The killer is left handed.”

“So? He is ambidextrous,” Anderson scoffed as Greg glared at him, because he never read that bit of information in the reports.

“Oh, and I also suppose he is also tall but yet short, and has hands that are both steady yet trembling?” Sherlock retorted.

“What?” Greg intervened before Anderson could respond.

Sherlock slammed a photo in front of Greg and handed him his pocket magnifier. “Here, look at this cut. Do you see? It’s not as neat as the others. It means the hand holding the knife was trembling, but since this is the fourth victim, it seems unlikely it would be due to hesitation or fear. So why the hand was trembling?”

“Good question,” Greg muttered, looking sideway at Anderson.

Two more photos were pushed under his eyes. “Compare these two cuts,” Sherlock said pointing this his finger, “this one is located quite low on the victim’s neck and is slight arched upward, suggesting the killer was far shorter than the victim...but this victim’s height is similar to the other victims’. So, why the other slashes are all in the mid-upper area of their neck? Because the other killers were taller. So what happened, Anderson? He went out without a brolly, was surprised by rain, got wet and shrunk like wool?”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply, but focused again on Greg. “There is no serial killer; you have five victims and five different murderers.”

Greg nodded. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Ask yourself: _cui prodest_?,” Sherlock answered, cryptic.

“What the hell does that mean?” Sally, who had remained silent up to that time, snapped.

“It’s Latin, Donovan. It means ‘who does the crime benefit’,” Sherlock answered her with a bored tone. Then he turned to Greg and spoke quickly, “Check all the victims’ relatives, acquaintances, business partners, colleagues. Find the five who gained more from their deaths. Then summon all of them here, put them in a room together and study them. You’ll discover four of them are right-handed and one is left-handed. Four of them will be of average height, while one will be significantly shorter; it could be a woman. One of the right-handed will also have trembling hands, caused either by a health problems or by alcohol or drug use.”

Greg rubbed his hair. “We’ve already interrogated the main beneficiaries of the victims’ deaths, they all had alibis.”

Sherlock grinned, “Of course they had alibis! That’s the beauty of their plan. They didn’t kill their ‘pertinent’ victim, they killed one of the others! A stranger they hadn’t any kind of tie with. But once you assign each victim to the correct killer, you’ll discover that person doesn’t have an alibi for that particular crime. You also need to discover the tie between the five killers: find what they have in common and you will understand there they met and how they plotted the whole thing.”

Sherlock grabbed the coat he had discarded before and put it on, along with scarf. “Solve this, Lestrade, and there is the very good chance you’ll make to Chief Inspector.”

The Alpha waved at the sulking Anderson and irritated Donovan with a shit-eating grin on his face and went away, as Greg shook his head in amusement.

“All right people,” he said clapping his hands. “You heard him, we have a lot of work to do.”

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

One week later, Greg’s phone chirped with a text alert.

_I told you. Congratulations. – SH_

Greg smiled and texted back. _Ta. But it’s just a public commendation, not a promotion. And it’s not deserved. It’s all your doing._

_Nope. You discovered the killers had all graduated at the same Cambridge College.—SH_

_Only after you noticed they all had calloused hands compatible with competitive rowing in their youth._

_It’s fine, Lestrade. I don’t care about accolades or getting credit. I care only about the fun.– SH_

_Speaking of which, are there some cases your incompetent colleagues hadn’t been able to solve? I’m bored.—SH_

Greg shook his head with exasperated fondness and texted, _I’ll look in the Archives._

Then he stood up, left his office and went to do exactly that.

****

** March 2012 **

 

Greg had liked John Watson from the start, and the feeling had increased as he saw the good influence the no-nonsense Beta had on his Alpha. Sherlock was a little less inclined to insult people when John was nearby, and it made working with him easier.

Thanks to John’s blog, which was far more entertaining than Sherlock’s ‘Science Of Deduction’ site, the self-labelled Consulting Detective had begun to get more and more private clients, which had been a good thing as NSY supply of cold cases wasn’t endless.

He had also felt relieved to know Sherlock no longer lived alone, but with a doctor and a caring landlady.

Greg wasn’t blind, nor was a complete idiot. He knew Sherlock had relapsed since his stint in the Florida rehab. Oh, the Alpha had always been careful not to come high on the crime scenes, but Greg had seen the sign of drug use during some of the visits he had paid at Sherlock’s previous flat in Montague Street, when he dropped by with cold cases files. They had had rows about it, which had resulted in them not talking to each other for weeks, until someone popped dead in weird circumstances, and Sherlock waltzed in to investigate. Brilliant, obnoxious and with a certificate of sobriety countersigned by his doctor and his brother.

Thus Greg had been relieved when Sherlock had informed him he planned to move in Baker Street, in a flat belonging to an elderly woman he had helped back when he was in Florida. Mrs. Hudson was affectionate, motherly and treated Sherlock and John more as her sons than as her tenants.

Greg had hoped that the close presence of two people with strong moral values would help Sherlock to cope better with his more excessive behaviours; that their company would give the Alpha more stability, something that Greg, living on the other side of London and dealing with a deteriorating marriage, couldn’t give him.

So yes, Greg had been happy to see his Alpha well cared for, even if he wasn’t him doing the caring, but lately...lately he had started to be upset by the relationship between Sherlock and John.

They seemed so close, so in sync with each: Sherlock lead, and John followed; Sherlock deduced and John called him amazing or smart-arse, depending on the occasion; Sherlock solved cases, and John blogged about them.

Sherlock always called John by his first name, while Greg was still Lestrade. After knowing each other for ten years, after spending six scorching-hot heats together, he was never Greg, just Lestrade or inspector.

Greg sighed. This sounded very much as envy or jealousy, and it wasn’t fair to feel them. After all it was him and not Sherlock who had been married with a Beta, had years of happiness with her, before he had discovered he had an affair with her PE.

If Sherlock had found happiness with John, well, it was his right. What was fair for Greg, was fair for Sherlock.

Still, Greg wished to know...After all Sherlock knew everything about his soon-to-be ex-wife, the PE, Miriam's unreasonable jealosy regarding Greg's bond with Sherlock and their failed attempt at reconciliation.

So one evening, while he was at the pub with John, watching an Arsenal match and having a bit too much beer, he took his courage and asked, “So, tell me, what there is between you and Sherlock?”

John groaned aloud and let his head fall on the table. “Please, not you too!”

Greg grinned. “Not me what?”

John raised his head and glared at him. “Sherlock and I are friends. Very good friends. We helped each other in a time when we both needed it, but that’s it. No more, no less. And frankly I’m getting fed up with people thinking that just because we share a flat and are close, we must be in a romantic relationship.”

“Whoa, mate! Calm down,” Greg raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Sorry Greg, but it gets tiresome to keep on correcting people who assume we are something we aren’t. Mind you, I have nothing against same-sex or Alpha/Beta pairings, but it’s not what we are. I like Beta women and Sherlock...well...”

“What?” Greg pressed, his interest sparkled by John’s hesitation.

“Well, the only time I saw him show interest for someone, it was for a female Alpha—a dominatrix at boot!”

“You mean Irene Adler, the one who drugged him and beat him with a riding crop in that Belgravia house?”

“The one and the same.”

“Oh,” Greg murmured, taken aback. He hadn’t considered the possibility Sherlock might be interested in other Alphas. Alpha/Alpha pairing were rare, because Alphas were always domineering in the bedroom and didn’t like to submit. So, for such of a relationship to work, it was necessarily a good deal of compromise and frankly Sherlock didn’t have a collaborative personality.

“Ah Greg,” John exclaimed slapping his forearm, “don’t be so worried. You aren’t going to see him come to crime scenes covered with whip welts. She is now in America, under their witness protection program, and ever before she left, Sherlock had lost all interest in her, and treated her with the disdain he has for all of us lesser minds.”

Greg smiled and drank some of beer, as they both returned to focus on the TV screen in the corner.

Later that night, when he went home, he felt exhilarated, and not just because Arsenal won.

 

** June 2012 **

 

A popular old saying claimed that “it’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.”

It was a kind line, meant to comfort and to teach to accept the loss—of whatever kind – of a loved one.

 _But there were no saying for people like me,_ Greg thought. For people who hadn’t realized they loved until the recipient of said love was lost, gone forever.

Greg had never understood he loved Sherlock until the news of his Alpha’s suicide had reached him, and his whole world had crashed around him. He had rushed to the closest toilet and thrown up, then he sat down with his head in his hands, overwhelmed by a grief as sudden as it was devastating and paralyzing.

Twelve years. They had known each other for twelve bloody years and only now Greg could give a name to what he felt for his accidental bondmate. Now, when it was too late to do anything.

Too late to say “I love you.”

Too late for asking for forgiveness, because he had doubted Sherlock. Because, despite having seen Sherlock solve so many cases just by looking at a photo, he had let Donovan and Anderson convince him it was impossible the consulting detective could have discovered so much by just analyzing a footprint.

He had let Donovan and Anderson poison his thoughts, just as Sherlock had said. He had let them convince him he had kidnapped and almost poisoned to death two children...Sherlock, who had never even killed a bee, but simple opened window and waited for it to fly out. Sherlock, who had been so furious with the man who had hit Mrs. Hudson to throw him out of the window several times, and yet had made sure he wasn’t injured too severely. Sherlock, who had prevented Henry Knight from shooting himself, using kind words and a gentle tone to bring the scared Omega away from the brink. Sherlock, who in private had tried to clumsily comfort Greg after his wife had left him for good. Sherlock who had just looked at him with sad, resigned and non-judgemental eyes when he had been taken away from his flat in cuffs. Sherlock, who in the end had been the Alpha Greg had hoped to find when he was young: kind, open minded, faithful, trusting and had never judged him basing on his gender.

Greg had tried to pinpoint when his fondness for Sherlock had become something far deeper, but he had failed. It happened slowly along the years, so slowly he hadn’t noticed it until that terrible day of two weeks ago.

Since then, grief and guilt had been his constant companions. At the funeral service, he had stood in the sidelines, away from the openly weeping Mrs. Hudson, the stony-faced John, the impassable but too pale Mycroft. He hadn’t been able to bear their accusing gazes, nor to be close to other people who had come to pay their respect to Sherlock. People like Henry Knight or Angelo, the restaurant owner, or the family of the banker Sherlock had rescued from his kidnappers.

The day after the funeral, Mycroft Holmes had sent him a letter, in which he wrote he would do his best to make sure Greg would keep his job, as it was Sherlock who asked him to do so. He also said that Greg was the main beneficiary of Sherlock’s will.

Greg had written back, thanking Mycroft for the help – he needed his job, it was the only thing he had left, and he knew his position as DI was very shaky as all of the cases where Sherlock had consulted were being reviewed – but resolutely turned down the money, because it felt too much as Judas’ thirty pieces of silver.

Now, kneeling in front of Sherlock’s simple gravestone, Greg’s eyes filled with the tears he hadn’t yet be able to shed.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he sobbed, as the tears fell freely from his face to drip on the earth below. “So sorry for not being at your side when you needed me most. So sorry for failing you, for not having fought more for you.” He brushed away the tears and whispered, “I know you didn’t believe in God, that you thought it’s just fiction to comfort dumb people—but I believe in Him, and I believe He’ll enjoy having you around. He’ll give you the love I was too blind to give you. You’ll be at peace at His side. But please, just don’t irritate Him too much, all right?” Greg gave a sad smile, trying to imagine Sherlock ‘deduce’ the Almighty.

“As for myself,” Greg continued after a moment, “I’ll do what I failed to do when you were still alive. I’ll prove Richard Brooks was Jim Moriarty’s creation. I’ll prove you weren’t a fraud and clear your name. These are my promises, my beloved Alpha, and I’ll keep them.”

Speaking so, he stood up, brushed the grass and the dirt from his trousers and after another long look at Sherlock’s tomb, the turned around and walked away.

He had a job to do.

He had a promise to keep.

He had to find a way to go on living.

 

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments. I didn't reply because most of them concerned Greg's heats while Sherlock is "dead". As the matter is dealt with in this chapter, I thought best to let the story talk...That said, I really appreciated your comments. It's wonderful to see the story is liked...*big grin*

** Late October 2014 **

 

Greg contemplated the Alpha Surrogate Clinic card in his hand, then threw it in the bin with finality.

More than two years had passed since the last time since he saw his Alpha, and while the pain had lessened and become bit more bearable, Greg still thought of him every day. And it was because of Sherlock and his love for him that Greg  had been procrastinating about calling the clinic.

His doctor had been determined and ruthless. As Greg wasn’t taking steps to have a natural heat, almost three years later after his last one,  his doctor had refused to refill his suppressants prescription and handed him the Alpha Surrogate Clinic card.

Greg had protested by saying that all his blood tests were good and the hormones levels indicated he was approaching andropause. Couldn’t he just keep on taking suppressants until he stopped having heats?

The answer had been an emphatic no. The whole andropause cycle could last two-three years more, and he couldn’t stay on suppressants till them.

Since  that day, Greg had tried to convince himself to book an appointment at the clinic—but the mere idea to have inside him an Alpha that wasn’t Sherlock had made him sick. He wasn’t ready. Maybe he would never be ready. And since his heat would likely start within two days, it was time to go home and do some last minute online shopping.

He would pass his heat alone and using toys. It would be hard to return to use toys after so many heats spent with an Alpha, but it would be bearable.

Decision made, Greg put on his coat and left his office. Down in NSY parking, he stopped to look for his cigarette pack and lighter.

Someone nearby kicked a bottle but when he looked, there was no one. He was about to lighten the cigarette when the voice he had never forgotten echoed in the parking, “Those things will kill you.”

Greg stopped, his hands no longer steady. Was it possible? Was he hallucinating? Was he going mad?

Then Sherlock stepped out from behind a pillar and, absurdly, the first thing he thought upon seeing that handsome face again was, _“Philip was right!”_

Sherlock stopped at few feet from him, hands behind his back, carefully looking at him...almost as he was waiting to see how Greg would react.

Greg put away the cigarette and roughly said, “Oh, you bastard!”

Sherlock stepped closer, “It’s time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.”

“Greg,” he corrected, although, at the moment Sherlock could have called him the worst of names, and he wouldn’t have minded. His Alpha was alive! The miracle he hadn’t dared to ask or hope for had happened!

“Greg,” Sherlock repeated, stopping in front of him with expectant eyes, waiting for his next move.

Greg didn’t hesitated and pulled the younger man in a bear hug. He basked in the warmth of that beloved body, breathing in his never forgotten mix of aftershave and clean Alpha sweat. His heart rejoiced when Sherlock’s arms hesitantly wrapped around him.

Overwhelmed by the joy of being in his Alpha’s arms again, Greg tightened his embrace, but loosened his hold when he heard a pained groan.

Greg stepped back and took a good look at the other man, now that the shock of seeing him again had lessened. He couldn’t discern much about his physical condition as Sherlock wore his Belstaff coat, but his face was quite pale, his nose was swollen and stained with blood and his lower lip was split in a corner.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

“John happened.”

“He wasn’t that happy to see you, uh? Well, it may teach you that faking your death is more than a bit no good,” Greg replied, a part of him hurt that Sherlock had gone to John first.

“Are you go to punch me too?” Sherlock asked, half-curious, half-worried.

“Nah. I’m inviting you home. I want to check that nose. Besides, there is something we need to discuss.”

He began to walk toward his car and Sherlock followed him without protesting.

“You’re off suppressants,” the Alpha said quietly. “Your heat is coming.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t stick to your usual schedule; you should have gone in heat in January, now is almost November.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Why did you break the schedule you have followed for more than ten years?”

Greg stopped and looked straight at Sherlock. “Because you were dead and I didn’t the fancy to go a stranger or use toys.”

“Oh.” For once in his life Sherlock seemed not to know what to say. He looked around the parking and then asked, “And now?”

“Now my doctor refuses to fill my suppressant prescription until I’ve a heat, so I’ve no choice but have it,” Greg said, a bit irritated, as he had wanted to have this conversation in the privacy of his flat and not in the middle of the damn parking.

“I see.” Sherlock stared down at his feet, then up again to meet Greg’s eyes. “Uh...I’m sorry for causing you pain. But now that I’m back, you know I’ll be here for you.”

He looked so uncertain and contrite that Greg’s irritation disappeared. He smiled and murmured, “Yes, I know.”

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

One hour later, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, his shirt unbuttoned, as Greg tended to his nose and lip.

When he was done, Greg stepped back and, remembering Sherlock’s groan when he had embraced him, asked, “Anything else you need me to check?”

“Well...yes. I’ve some scratches on my back. They may have started bleeding again after John tackled me on the floor.”

“Fine. Remove your shirt and turn around.”

Sherlock did so after a slight hesitation and breath caught in Greg’s throat when he saw his back.

It was no longer smooth skinned as it had been the last time they had shared a heat. From shoulder to loins it was now covered with scars, bruises, and other wounds, some of them bleeding. Greg had seen enough abuse victims to recognize cigarette burns, and enough knife cuts to recognize when they were inflicted to cause pain but not death.

“Scratches?” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion. “These aren’t scratches, Sherlock.”

“No, they aren’t.” Sherlock replied softly. “But I’m home now. I’m safe, and they will heal.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed, equally softly. They will heal. Now go to lie on the bed; a couple of wounds are bleeding as a few stitches broke. They need tending to.”

Sherlock nodded and went to the bedroom, as Greg took a moment to centre himself. He could still see his Alpha’s tortured back. He could only imagine how much Sherlock had to have suffered, and just that was enough to make him feel nauseous. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he brushed them away. Sherlock was right. He was now home. He was safe, and he would heal- both of them would heal.

Greg took a deep breath, then looked inside the bathroom cabinet for gauzes, tape, and a broad spectrum antibiotic cream. His eyes fell on a bottle stored there and he had a sudden idea. He took it too and went to the bedroom, where he found Sherlock had completely disrobed, and was now waiting for him completely naked, laying on his front with his arms crossed under his head.

Greg let his eyes stare at his beautiful backside, the one he so enjoyed gripping when he spurred Sherlock to thrust faster and harder.

“Are you comfortable? He asked his tone full of irony, although he was very pleased of the development.

Sherlock shrugged. “The shock of my reappearance, and the sudden influx of adrenaline have likely speeded up the onset of your heat. I predict you’ll feel the first symptoms in the morning. It’s more practical to sleep here; I’ll be at hand when you are ready.”

“Yeah, that’s indeed practical,” Greg replied with a laughter, as his heart started beating faster at the idea of sleeping near Sherlock. He would be able to enjoy his Alpha’s closeness while his mind was still clear to appreciate it, to savour every moment of it.

Returning to the task at hand, he let a towel fell near Sherlock’s head and said, “Since you’re already undressed, spread this beneath you.”

“Why?” Sherlock grumbled, although he did what he was told without hesitation.

“Because after I’m done with tending these wounds, I’ll give you a massage with lavender and arnica oil. Trust me, it works wonders on sore muscles. And while I’m at it, you’ll explain me why you faked your death and let us grieve for two years.”

Sherlock sighed loudly as he settled back on the mattress. “Moriarty had pushed me in a corner. I knew when I went on that rooftop that it was quite likely one of us would end dead, and I wanted to avoid it was me.”

“Uhm,” Greg hummed in encouragement as he applied the antibiotic cream on a cut.

“He put me in front of a choice: either I killed myself, thus confirming I was a fraud who couldn’t bear having been discovered, or he would kill the persons I cared most for.”

“John,” Greg whispered.

“Do keep up, Lestrade. I said persons. Plural. You, John, Mrs. Hudson. There were snipers targeting all of you, and there was no way to recall their orders as Moriarty killed himself in front of me.”

“Damn! What a bastard!”

“Quite so. Mycroft and I had come up with several back-up plans in case things went wrong, and we used one of them. I won’t go too much in detail, but when I jumped, I landed on something much softer than a paving slab.”

“I see,” Greg murmured, idly thinking how much Anderson would love to hear this. He pushed away the bandages and cream and picked up the massage oil. In order to work better, he straddled Sherlock’s hips and sat down on his naked buttocks. Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder to look at him surprised and Greg grinned.

“Trust me, you’ll enjoy it. So much that you may also end up thanking me,” Greg commented dryly but with amusement.

Sherlock lowered his head back on his arms as Greg poured the oil on his hands, heating the viscous, scented liquid.

When he was satisfied the oil was warmth enough, he set out to work Sherlock’s back.

Starting from his shoulders, Greg worked the younger man’s back with firm, expert strokes, being careful to avoid the stitched wounds. He used the weight on the ball of his palms to drive up either side of Sherlock’s spine and made his Alpha first grunt in discomfort as he dug into too tense muscles and then sigh in pleasure when said muscles began to relax and move freely under his oiled fingers.

“What did you next?” he asked after a while, wanting to know about the rest of Sherlock’s time away.

“I travelled the world disbanding Moriarty’s network. Sometimes it was an easy work…sometimes it wasn’t.” An involuntary shiver ran along his back. “I couldn’t return to London until I was sure that every person aware of Moriarty’s order to kill you hadn’t been neutralized.” A pause, then, he continued in softer voice, “You were watched, Lestrade, all three of you. It was necessary for you to believe I was dead, for your safety. I didn’t cause you pain for nil, but to save your lives.”

“Well Sherlock, John will forgive you when he hears this. Mrs. Hudson too.”

“If he will ever let me explain—he was quite explicit when he said he didn’t want to see me again,” Sherlock grumbled.

“He’ll come around, don’t worry,” Greg reassured, gently pushing Sherlock’s body down into the mattress as he stretched his vertebrae.

“And you? Will you forgive me too?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t feel there is anything to forgive, Sherlock. Not after listening to you story, and certainly not after seen what it cost to you. You know,” Greg continued lowering his tone as if he was about to tell a secret, “for a ‘high-functioning sociopath’ you care very much for people. But then, you and I know you aren’t one, uh?”

Sherlock huffed. “I really don’t know what are you talking about.”

Greg grinned. “Sure you don’t, Sunshine.”

“Don’t call me so.”

“You’re back among the living, are naked in my bed, I’m giving you a massage and I’ll call you as I please, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Now shut up and enjoy.”

Greg continued his massage for several minutes more as he enjoyed the way his fingers ran along his Alpha’s glistening skin, and the ripples his movements caused to the now relaxed flesh. By the time he decided it was enough, Sherlock had stopped making any kind of sounds. Greg looked down at him and noticed he was fast asleep.

“Mission accomplished,” Greg said softly to himself, as he dismounted from his back and went to the bathroom to wash his hands and put the oil and the medical supplies away.

He undressed, washed and returned to the bedroom, noting with a smile that Sherlock hadn’t moved an inch.

He pulled up the covers and joined his sleeping Alpha beneath them. He snuggled closer to the younger man, kissed his cheek and took one of his lax hands in his own.

“Welcome back, Sherlock. I’m so happy to have you back, my Alpha,” he whispered, throat tight with emotion.

“Thanks,” Sherlock murmured sleepy, and Greg almost blushed. He hadn’t meant for Sherlock to hear him; he knew the Alpha was uncomfortable with emotions and demonstrations of affection.

However Greg’s unease disappeared as Sherlock rolled over onto his side and pulled the Omega against him; he wrapped him with an arm and squeezed gently, just once.

Greg rested against the body spooning him and wrapped one of his hands around Sherlock’s wrist. He could sense his Alpha’s pulse under the delicate skin, and let the beating of his heart – of that generous, courageous, loyal heart– lull him to sleep.

 

** 31st December 2015 **

 

It was New Year’s Eve and Greg was sitting in his living room, trying to find the will to attend the office party and failing. After the Christmas Eve’s dinner spent at his parents’, with his mother once again complaining because he hadn’t given her grandchildren, he had no desire to spend another miserable evening. He could do without being the only single among bonded or married happy couples. It had been hard enough to go alone at John and Mary’s wedding, but at least Sherlock had been there and Greg hadn’t felt that out of place.

The sight of John and Mary’s happiness had driven home how lonely he was and how he longed to have a real relationship with Sherlock—or at least something more beyond sharing heats and meetings on crime scenes.

He had considered telling Sherlock how he really felt, that he loved him, but he was afraid of his reaction, of seeing his feelings ridiculed. His Alpha didn’t see feelings and emotions as other people did, he had said as much during his best man’s speech at the wedding. He didn’t understand romantic love. Oh, Sherlock could love – and loved – it was clear as the sun for anyone who really knew him, but he wasn’t able to love in that way. Greg knew it. He knew that Sherlock cared for him, that his jokes about his name were his way to show affection and most of the time Greg was fine, even happy with what he had. After all, Sherlock was his Alpha and nothing could take it away.

However today wasn’t one of those days. Another year was finished, he felt a bit older, and the past three months had been quite hard, emotionally speaking. Sherlock had been shot and had all but died on the operating table. Then he had escaped from the hospital to confront his shooter all alone – or so Greg thought. Blessedly John had found him before the shooter could finish the job, but the internal damage due to this stunt had been extensive, earning him a very long stay at the hospital. Mycroft had put him under strict surveillance and the doctors had given even stricter orders that Sherlock shouldn’t be agitated or upset in any way. After that, Sherlock had been whisked off to his parents’ home to complete his recovery and Greg didn’t have the chance to have any meaningful conversation with him.

A knock on the door intruded in his thoughts. Greg frowned. Who it was? He wasn’t expecting anyone.

Another knock. Someone was really impatient.

 _Maybe it’s one of those student kids that moved in last month,_ he thought as he walked to the door. _They always forget to buy things_.

He opened the door and looked stunned when he saw it was Sherlock. He was standing there with his hand raised to knock another time, and he wasn’t alone. Two burly guys screaming ‘government agents’ were standing behind him.

“May I come in, Greg?” Sherlock asked, unusually unsure.

“Of course,” he replied, opening the door wider.

“Ten minutes, Mr. Holmes,” said one of the G-men, and it did sound more as an order than as a reminder.

Sherlock ignored him as he entered and closed the door.

“Who are they?” Greg asked, half-amused, half-worried. “Mycroft’s minders? Is he afraid you’ll escape another time?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock replied without any trace of irony or sarcasm. He stayed still with his back at the door, his coat fully buttoned despite the warm of the room.

“What is it?” Greg prodded him. “You’re not here to wish me Happy New Year.”

Sherlock pressed his lips, eyes darting around the room, looking at everything but him. “I don’t know where to start.” He whispered, “There is so much to say and so little time to say it.”

Greg was getting worried, as this sounded like a serious matter. A really serious matter if he added the two agents outside of his door.

“Start from the beginning,” he suggested. “It’s the easiest way.”

“All right, I’ll do so, but please, don’t interrupt me. What I’m going to say is very hard for me and I don’t know how you’ll take it…but I cannot bear to keep it inside. Not now.”

Now Greg was really worried. Sherlock never said please…He took a deep breath to steady himself and replied. “Okay. Go, on. I’ll listen.”

Sherlock seemed still uncertain from where to begin, but then his face hardened as he found his resolve. “For most of my life I’ve believed myself above the necessities of other people. I believed that love was a chemical defect and caring wasn’t an advantage. I no longer feel the same. Something changed in me, and while sometimes it’s difficult for me to relate with my feelings, I’m glad for this change.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then looked straight at Greg’s eyes. “When I made that speech at John’s wedding I was lying, Greg. I do know how love feels like, because I love you. I’ve for a long time.”

Greg’s breath caught in his throat, as his heart began beating faster. He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t even know what, but Sherlock raised his hand.

“No interruptions, remember?”

Greg nodded, still feeling dazed, and Sherlock resumed talking. “You’re wondering why I didn’t tell you before and why I’m telling you now. The answer to the first question is that I had no idea of how you would react to my confession. I’m not exactly lovable and, most importantly, we didn’t bond by choice. We were forced, our bond being the result of a reciprocal rape.”

Greg shook his head and clenched his jaw in order not to speak.

“We didn’t chose each other, and I know how much you value your independence and resent the heats we must spend together.”

Greg couldn’t say silent a moment more, “For God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “I don’t resent you! And you are very lovable…as a matter of fact I’ve loved you for years, and I didn’t say anything because you never gave a hint you wanted to be more than…that heat-buddies! He closed his eyes for a moment, and  when he reopened them they were misty. “God, so much time wasted…we were such idiots. Yes, you too, Sunshine.”

Greg smiled, a trembling smile he was sure, and stepped closer to Sherlock, wanting to embrace him and then kiss him senseless. However he was stopped by gentle but firm hands.

“There is more Greg, and you aren’t going to like it. As matter of fact, what I just said…what you just said, is going to make it harder…Perhaps I shouldn’t have come here…No, I wouldn’t have come had I known what you feel for me.”

“Why?” Greg asked, shaken.

“Because this is a goodbye, my Omega. I’m leaving tomorrow and we’ll never see each other again.”

“What?! Why?”

“I’ve murdered a man, Greg, and my punishment for it is death.”

“What the hell are you saying? Capital punishment was abolished decades ago, ” Greg protested, feeling very close to have a crisis of nerves. This couldn’t be happening…

“I was given a choice: spend the rest of my life in jail or go on a mission for MI6—a suicide mission for all intent and purposes;  I chose the latter. A last chance to make the difference, a last game to play. I’ve been in isolation for the past six days and I would go mad and kill myself if I had to stay close in a cell for years. This way it will be quicker.”

“But Sherlock…” Greg’s voice was so strained he barely recognized it as his own. “Can’t Mycroft do anything?”

“He did; that was why I was given this choice.” A deep breath, and Sherlock continued softly but firmly. “I shot Charles Augustus Magnussen in the head in front of a whole SAS squad. It was the only thing I could do to save all of us and I don’t regret doing it. He was a despicable being, who would have transformed all of our lives in hell. But that doesn’t absolve me in front of the law. I came here tonight to say you goodbye and to tell you will soon free to mate with an Alpha of your choice, but I see now I’ve committed a mistake. Another one to add to the list of my costly errors. I’m really sorry for causing you pain…I never meant it.”

Greg stared silently at Sherlock, hearing only the blood pumping in his ears at the alarmingly fast beat of his heart.

This couldn’t be happening.

How was it possible to being given everything you ever wanted only to see it being snatched away the very next moment?

It had to be a cruel joke—but it wasn’t. Sherlock’s face was pale and distraught and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

“I’m sorry Greg,” he whispered. “I never meant to hurt you like this. I just wished to see you one last time…but now it’s better if I go. I-I hope that one day you’ll forgive me.”

Greg couldn’t bear it a moment more. “Of course I forgive you,” he croaked as he pulled Sherlock in his arms and hugged him as tightly as he could. He buried his nose in his Alpha’s neck, as Sherlock embraced him back, just as strongly. They stood there, clinging to each other, trying to imprint the feel of the other in their very souls.

There was a knock on the door. “Time is up, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock gently freed himself from the embrace and took a step back.

“I must go now,” he said with a weak smile. “They are capable of breaking the door, and then what would your landlord say?”

Greg smiled at the lame joke, as Sherlock knew the flat was his. “He would curse like a sailor and send the repairs bill to Mycroft.”

“Mr. Holmes,” came from behind the door.

Sherlock squared his shoulders and put a hand on the knob. He looked one more time at Greg’s eyes and murmured, “Goodbye, Greg.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” telling himself not to break down, that there would be time for that later.

A final nod, then Sherlock opened the door and walked out with determined steps. “Let’s go,” Greg heard him say.

He left the door open until the sound of receding steps ceased. Then Greg closed it calmly and let his knees fail him as they had threatened to do for several minutes. He slid down with his back against the door until he found himself sitting on the floor, head bowed in defeat and encompassing loss.

 

**TBC**

 

*runs to hide from the shoes thrown her ways*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S4 timeline is a bit tricky because it’s difficult to say how much time passed since Sherlock returned from his aborted mission (return I set on 1st January 2016 basing on Mycroft’s words in TAB, when he says Sherlock has spent a week in isolation before boarding the plane after killing Magnussen on Christmas day) to Mary’s giving birth and from that to the events on Sherrinford island. I’ve chosen March 2017 because I set Sherlock’s birthday (TLD) on 6th January and I believe at least a month passed from that day to the day Eurus “shoots” John (Sherlock needed time to recover and John needed time to improve). I also added some time between the explosion and the trip to Sherrinford, because I believe both Sherlock and John needed to recover from jumping out of the window, even if they landed, as said on the DVD featurette, on Speedy’s awning.

** 1st January 2016 **

 

Consciousness returned slowly but inexorably, bringing with it a pounding headache and a mouth that seemed stuffed with rancid wool. Greg slowly opened his burning eyes and bleary looked around himself.

He was sitting on the armchair in the living room, and there wasn’t a single muscle in his body that didn’t hurt. An empty bottle of Scotch was on the floor near his feet. He hadn’t even bothered with a glass, but drank from it until he had stopped thinking, until oblivion had overcome him. He had managed to sleep, but not to forget and now his head hurt as much as his broken heart.

Sherlock was gone—forever. Sent to his death by his own brother and the government he represented.  

A life for a life.

Greg didn’t approve of murder. He didn’t approve who decided to take justice in their hands. But he knew Sherlock—and he knew Charles Augustus Magnussen.

There had been rumours about the press magnate since he had moved in Britain from Denmark. Whispers about how he managed to discover people’s dirty secrets and use them to blackmail them. Not for money, he didn’t need it, but for power, for the sick pleasure of having control over other people’s lives.

Nothing had ever been proven, perhaps because people were too scared of him, but Greg was aware of at least three suicides and one murder happened after one of Magnussen’s papers had published intimate details about someone’s life. The latest victim had been Lord Smallwood, a Peer of the realm, who had killed himself after his intimate letters to his former lover – a girl CAM claimed to be underage – had been published.

No, Greg didn’t condone murder, but he was sure that Sherlock had to have acted for a damn good reason, and while he knew his Alpha deserved punishment, it was still wrong he should pay with his life for his mistake. It wasn’t fair after everything Sherlock had suffered to free the world from Moriarty’s crime web.

For what he had to bear to make sure Mrs. Hudson, John and Greg would be safe. The feel of Sherlock’s scars was impressed into his skin. How he had longed to kiss each of them the night he had given Sherlock a massage, to show his appreciation and gratitude, but he had refrained because it would have been too sentimental, and the younger man didn’t do sentiment.

Except that now Greg knew Sherlock had loved him...and once again it was too late. Too damn late.

Rising on shaky legs, he moved to the bathroom, needing a to brush his teeth and have a shower, but as he walked past the table, his phone started ringing.

Greg thought to let it ring and ignore the call, but when he saw it was Sally, his sense of duty won over and he answered.

“Yes, Donovan?”

“Have you seen it yet, Guv?” she said quickly.

“Seen what?”

“The TV! Moriarty!”

Greg's eyes widened, stunned. “Moriarty?! What the hell...”

He found the remote and switched on the TV. Moriarty’s ugly face took the entire screen, mouth moving in an unnatural way as his voice repeated ‘Did you miss me?’ in an endless loop.

“It’s on every screen, Guv. Even in Piccadilly Circus. The High-Tech criminal division is working to stop the fed, but they can’t pinpoint the source of the signal.”

“But it cannot be him... he‘s dead.”

“Well,  apparently not. Or maybe you’re right and it’s just someone pulling a colossal prank, but right now the upper brass are frantic and all personnel are called back on duty. That’s why I’m calling you, all vacations have been cancelled.”

“Okay,” Greg said wearily. “Give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there.”

“All right.”

He closed the call and went to the bathroom. Moriarty’s appearance had sobered him and he felt sort of grateful to have something to keep him busy, and prevent him from wondering every minute where Sherlock was now.

He quickly washed, shaved, dressed and rushed out of his flat and down in the street, to where he had parked his car. Only that there was another car blocking it. A black sedan with a woman standing near the opened backdoor.

Greg recognized her at once: she was Mycroft Holmes’s personal assistant.

He stepped into the car without saying anything, and soon they were speeding up across town.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Baker Street,” Anthea or whatever was her name replied without raising her eyes from her Smartphone. “Your presence is requested there. We have already cleared your absence with your superiors.”

Baker Street? Why there of all places? Greg wondered with a pang in his heart. It would be so hard to be in that flat so full of memories of Sherlock. He closed his eyes to stop the tears from spilling, and didn’t open them again until the car stopped.

Anthea opened the door and let him out.  She pointed to 221B door and said,“ It’s open. Go upstairs, he’s waiting for you.” There was a small smile, the first one he had ever seen on her face.

That smile and that word ‘he’, made hope bloom in Greg’s chest as he ran up the stairs in a dash. Was it possible? Could he dare to hope?

He was breathless when he stepped inside the flat and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room.

“Sherlock...” he whispered.

“Greg,” came the equally soft reply.

A moment of stillness, before they both moved toward the other, meeting midway. They embraced, as pure joy enveloped them. They hugged and then they kissed, the first kiss they had ever had outside of heat. They were both out of practice, but by God, it was sublime.

Greg buried his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, “I thought you were gone, that I’d never see you again,” he whispered.

“I know...I was on a plane, already in the air when Moriarty reappeared. They called me back to deal with him or, more precisely, with whomever is behind his reappearance. Because he is dead, no question about that.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

Greg kissed him again and Sherlock responded, more aggressively and taking control of the kiss. It went on for several long moments, until Greg pulled back and took a few steps backward.

Sherlock’s lips were swollen, his eyes black with arousal, and Greg wanted nothing more but have his Alpha shag him on the floor—but still there was a question in his mind.

“What about Magnussen’s death?”

“Mycroft is dealing with that, getting me a pardon or something like that.”

Greg shook his head and said very seriously. “It’s not what I meant. You can’t go around killing people, Sherlock! You’re better than that. You must swear you won’t ever do something like that again.”

“It wasn’t my first murder, Greg,” Sherlock replied, his voice solemn. “I’ve killed nine other people during my two years away—and I don’t regret any of those murders, because they were threatening my Omega and the Betas I consider my pack...my family. Magnussen would have ruined all of us, ruined everything we built during our lives and I couldn’t allow him to do so. Am I proud of my actions? No. Do I regret them? No. Would I do it again in similar circumstances? Yes, if that was the only way out.” Greg opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock raised his hand, stopping him. “However, I can swear you I won’t ever kill for any other reason. Only to protect my family, and only if there was no other way.”

Greg nodded slowly. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

“All right,” he murmured, “all right.”

Deciding they had talked enough, Greg took a step forward, closing the gap he had created between them and posed his lips over Sherlock. The reaction was immediate: two strong hands rose to seize his head, pulling him even closer, as an insistent tongue demanded entry into his mouth.

Greg moaned deep in his throat and lost himself into the kiss. He arched his body toward Sherlock’s, rubbing his achingly hard cock against the younger man's thigh. His hands started unbuttoning his Alpha's shirt, taking it off his trousers, but they were quickly trapped and stopped by a strong grip on his wrists.

"Uhm..." Greg protested, wanting to free himself and continue with the disrobing. He had waited so long for this and he couldn’t bear to wait longer

"Not here," Sherlock whispered, pupils dilated with lust. "Other there. Bedroom. Now."

Walking closely, their bodies brushing with every step they took, they covered the small corridor, and resumed their activities as soon as they reached Sherlock’s bedroom.

Greg was pulled against his Alpha, and his mouth was captured in another deep kiss. He responded to it with matching ardor, teeth clashing with Sherlock’s as their tongues dueled and mated with each other.

When they separated, they were both breathing hard and eager to proceed to the next step. Clothes were quickly discarded and then it was Greg’s turn to pull Sherlock into his arms, stealing another kiss. Another wave of lust zipped along his spine and settled in his balls when he felt both their rigid cocks trapped between their pressed bellies.

Sherlock freed himself from the embrace and pushed Greg toward the bed, making him back up until his knees hit the mattress. The younger man gestured with his hand, indicating Greg should sit. He then stepped closer, his long-fingered, strong hands rising to caress his face, with a tenderness Greg had never expected from Sherlock.

Greg was almost moved to embarrassing tears at the look of open affection in Sherlock’s eyes. It was like the mask the younger man always used to guard himself had completely disappeared.

Greg raised his own arms and wrapped them around the other man's waist pulling him even closer and pressing his face against his warm belly. Sherlock’s hands moved to caress his short hair, and they stayed like that for a few minutes, a silent testament of their love for each other.

However, lust was playing a big role in that very moment, and thus they separated, the need to appease their bodies' wants too strong to be ignored any longer.

Greg scooted back on the mattress and reclined into its middle, as Sherlock followed him, on his hands and knees. He lowered his body atop of Greg’s, and his mouth settled immediately against the older man's neck, licking, and sucking and biting.

The Alpha in Sherlock was looking for his submission, and the Omega in Greg responded, tilting his head back and baring his neck fully, earning an approving growl from his mate.

Greg arched beneath Sherlock as he let go of his neck and left a damp trail of nips and kisses along his chest. He moaned and dug his fingers into his lover's back when that demanding hot mouth reached his nipples.

Greg enjoyed the attention to his hardened nubs for a while, until he felt like he was about to explode if he didn't come soon.

He tugged at Sherlock’s hair to make him raise his head and when their eyes met, he murmured, "Can't wait anymore, Sunshine. Need you now."

Sherlock rewarded him with one of his trademark lop-sided grins. "Yes. We waited far too long for this."

Greg spread his legs wide, and Sherlock knelt between them. His long fingers probed at his opening, finding it wet and loose.

“Told you I can’t wait anymore,” Greg grinned and watched as Sherlock slid into position, planting a hand near his mate's shoulder for balance and using his other one to guide his cock inside.

Greg moaned when he felt the stretch and fullness he had come to know and love and crave. Looking up at Sherlock’s clear eyes staring down at him made everything more intense. This was so different from their shared heats. This wasn’t about biology and animal instinct; this was about them and what they felt for each other and it made everything better, more meaningful.

Sherlock settled atop of him and slid his arms beneath his shoulders, in a strong yet gentle embrace that warmed Greg's heart. "Ready?"

"Yes," Greg breathed, raising his head off the pillow to plant a brief kiss on his Alpha's lips.

Sherlock started thrusting gently, his face buried in Greg's neck, mouthing his skin. His hips slid against the Omega’s as he moved, slow and methodical.

Every coherent thought left Greg, as he was washed in sensations: the thick Alpha cock sliding in and out of him, rubbing his sweet spots and pulling at his nerve endings; the way Sherlock's hands gripped and released his shoulders in time with his thrusts; the constant friction of their pressed stomachs against his leaking cock.

"More..." he begged, and Sherlock responded, by quickening his pace and by freeing one of his hands from beneath Greg's shoulder, slipping it between them and wrapping it around his cock. He started stroking it in time to his thrusts.

"More," Greg asked again.

Sherlock growled, pushing harder into Greg, pinning him down, his grip on the Omega’s cock painfully tight and moving up and down as quickly as his hips.

Greg looked up at Sherlock and his breath caught in his throat because he could see the love and the passion in his mate's verdigris eyes. Sherlock was making love, not just mating, and Greg desperately wanted to see how he would look like when he came.

"Come," Greg murmured, when Sherlock started shuddering and his rhythm became more erratic, "Come, Sherlock..."

Sherlock let out a sound that seemed half a groan, half a growl and squeezed his eyes shut, tensing and slamming against Greg as he came. He didn't stop moving, though. He kept on thrusting, his hand sliding over Greg's cock, until the older man groaned loudly and came with a shudder all over the Alpha’s fingers and their bellies.

"Oh God," Greg croaked when he could speak again. "That was really something..."

Sherlock nodded as he slowly pulled out of him. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Never better," Greg answered with a smile that became a grin when Sherlock smiled back at him.

Sherlock then rolled over and reached out with his hand, looking for and finding his discarded shirt, which he used to clean Greg, as the older man lay there, still completely boneless. When it was done, Sherlock threw away the shirt, pulled the blankets over their cooling bodies and stretched on his back with a satisfied groan.

Greg felt blissfully sated. The experience had been even better than his fantasies. He was also very, very tired. The emotional turmoil of the previous evening, the almost sleepless night, the booze and the mind-blowing sex, were all contributing to his tiredness. He didn’t care it was midmorning, he just wanted to sleep.

He turned around to kiss ‘sleep well’ to his mate and smiled softly when he saw that Sherlock was already asleep, face relaxed and so young-looking.

“I love you,” Greg whispered, kissing the still flushed cheek.

Then he snuggled closer to his Alpha, lowered his head onto Sherlock’s chest and closed his eyes.

The mystery of Moriarty’s return could wait.

 

** January 2016-  March 2017 **

 

The following months were among the happiest of Greg’s life.

They decided to keep their bonding a secret until false-Moriarty showed their hand again. Whomever was behind the TV hacking had disappeared without leaving any clue, but Sherlock believed that it could be a plan Moriarty had orchestrated in case something had gone wrong on Bart’s rooftop. A sort of posthumous revenge and Sherlock hadn’t wanted to give to this person or persons any idea by making known to friends and colleagues they were a mated pair. The press was always interested in Sherlock and it would take merely a word said to the prong person to see their bonding become public.

As for the rest, some things changed, while others remained the same. Sherlock was fiercely independent and unused to share the most intimate part of himself with another person. However, he began to open up with Greg, letting the Omega take care of him.

When there weren’t cases going on, Sherlock went to Greg’s place, mostly because there was no well-meaning but noisy Mrs. Hudson there.

Sometimes Sherlock only stayed a few hours and they would have dinner and watch telly, with Sherlock’s laying down with his head on Greg’s lap, the Omega’s fingers idly caressing his hair.

Other times Sherlock would spend the whole night; nights of scorching passions in which he unleashed his Alpha, or nights full of cuddling and pillow talks.

Greg enjoyed both of them equally. Sherlock was getting more and more comfortable at letting himself go, but it was clear to Greg that he hadn’t the strongest of sex-drives, strange for an Alpha, but not unheard of.

One of their conversation if the darkness of the bedroom had confirmed what he had always thought: Sherlock had been virgin when they had bonded, and their shared heats had been the only sex he had since that first time.

“But I’m not asexual,” Sherlock had reassured him. “I’m very sexually attracted to you. I want to have sex…just not every night.”

“That’s fine for me, Sunshine. I’m not longer as young as I was when I wanted to shag every night. I’m perfectly happy with what we have. I just wanted to make sure we are on the same page.”

“Oh we are…” Sherlock had replied, rolling over to kiss him deeply.

Weeks passed, wannabe-Moriarty stayed silent, Sherlock solved cases and tweeted about them, and John and Mary’s daughter was born.

Sherlock gave Greg a detailed account of the birth, as the little lady had decided she couldn’t wait to reach the hospital and had been delivered by John in the back of the car.

In the following days, Sherlock sounded as excited about the newborn as if he was the proud father and not John. However, before Greg could be assaulted by the thought Sherlock might have secretly wished to be a father, before any guilt could surface, Sherlock flashed him an impish smile and said, “Do you know what is the best thing? That when she needs to be changed, fed or bathed, Mary and John are there to do it!”

“So you aren’t wondering what it would have been like to have one of your own?” Greg asked.

Sherlock made such a horrified and terrified expression that was almost comical. “I’m no father material, Greg. The life I lead is dangerous and has no rooms for nappies and midnight feedings. I like the game, the chases, the intellectual stimulation. I would be a rubbish father—but I think I may be a passable uncle.”

“Oh, you’ll be more than passable. I’m sure Rosie will grow up loving you.”

Sherlock beamed, before sobering and asking, “And you, any regrets about not having kids?”

Greg shook his head without hesitation. “No. I never was the typical nurturing Omega, wishing for a brood of children. That’s one of the reasons I married a Beta.”

More time passed. Rosie grew up and thrived, Sherlock solved cases for half the Met and occasionally babysat, Greg curbed his jealousy when he saw other detectives ogling his oblivious Alpha, and everything seemed fine in the world.

Until, on a cold November night, in the deserted London Aquarium, Sherlock made a deduction too many and an old spy with a grudge pulled a trigger to make him shut up.

Mary Watson died saving Sherlock’s life and it plunged all their lives into a nightmare from which it wasn’t easy to wake up.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

When Greg listened to Mary’s video and to the instructions she gave Sherlock to save John from himself, his first reaction was to think, “Hell no, not on my watch.”

Yes, John was grieving, and yes, he was a mess, but that didn’t justify Mary’s advice to Sherlock to “go to hell” so John could come and rescue him.

Sherlock had already done so much for John and it wasn’t fair for Mary to ask for so much more. It was because Sherlock had sacrificed two years of his life to keep all of them alive that John had been able to met Mary.  It was because of Sherlock that Mary hadn’t ended up in jail for shooting him, and it had been Sherlock that had killed Magnussen to keep Mary and John safe. He had been ready to pay with his life to  ensure they would have a happy existence.

However, Sherlock was adamant, as he believed it was his fault if Mary had died.

“I got cocky, overconfident, and now John is a widower and Rosie an orphan. Just because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,” he said with self-loathing.

Greg shook his head. “You may have provoked that woman, but it was Mary’s decision to shield you. It’s not your fault she died.”

Sherlock set his jaw and nodded. “Yes, it was her decision and that’s why I need to do this for her. It was her final wish and I’ll respect it.”

Greg sighed, knowing it made no sense to keep arguing. Sherlock had made his mind and nothing would change it. “So, what you plan to do?”

Sherlock looked down at his left arm and said nothing.

It took Greg a moment to understand, but when he did, he exclaimed, “Drugs?! Is this your great plan? Can’t you find something else? Can’t you fake something?”

“John would know if I’m lying and besides…”

“What?” Greg narrowed his eyes, as realization hit him as a punch in the stomach. “You’re already using! Why?”

“To cope with the pain…the guilt.” Sherlock had the good grace to look contrite.

“Christ, Sherlock,” Greg took a deep breath trying to calm down. “Why didn’t you talk to me before doing this to yourself? To us? I’m your Omega, your bonded mate. You know I’m here for you-”

“You wouldn’t understand…” Sherlock said, not looking at him.

“Really? And how do you think I felt when you jumped from that roof?!” Greg shouted, anger mixing with pain as he remembered those horrible days. “I was in hell, Sherlock! I had loved you and yet my actions had pushed you to kill yourself. So don’t ever dare to say I wouldn’t understand what it means to feel pain and guilt! But contrary to you, I didn’t shoot drugs in my veins. I went to a therapist and let him help me to cope with the situation. That’s what people do. What’s what you should do, what John should do. But you are Sherlock Holmes, uh? What normal people do doesn’t apply to you, uh? Well, newsflash: I won’t stay here to see you destroy yourself.” He turned on his heels and stormed out of the flat, angrily brushing his misty eyes. Damn Sherlock!

He was still angry and hurt when the superintendent came to his office and asked him if he would be interested and willing to spend four weeks in Tunis, teaching investigative procedures at the local police academy.

He said yes without hesitation.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

The day Greg returned at work was the day Sherlock accused noted philanthropist Culverton Smith to be a serial killer.

Sally showed him the tweet and asked, “Do you think he is right, Guv? Should we investigate? Ask Holmes for more details?” Long past were the days Donovan doubted and sneered at everything Sherlock did or said.

“I’ll call him later,” Greg said. “Now tell me what happened while I was away playing teacher.”

Later in that day, as Greg was taking a break, he turned on his small TV to watch the news; the coffee he was drinking fell and splashed on the floor as his eyes posed on Sherlock, standing near Culverton Smith as a group of journalists surrounded them.

His Alpha was a shell of himself: unshaved, dirty, with greasy hair, a pale and gaunt face and bloodshot eyes.

All the anger Greg had felt disappeared, replaced by worry and guilt. It had been a mistake to stay away so long.

He took his car and rushed to Saint Caedwalla’s Hospital. The journalists were still there and Greg used the secondary entry to avoid being spotted by them. Once inside, he located the reception counter and walked there to ask where Sherlock and Culverton Smith were.

“Greg!” A voice called and he turned to look toward his right. It was John, running toward him, his face unusually pale.

He felt a pang to his heart. Had something happened to Sherlock?

John stopped near him, out of breath. He looked distraught and there was blood on his knuckles.

“What happened?” Greg asked urgently.

“Sherlock tried to kill Culverton Smith. I stopped him. God, Greg. He has completely lost it. He is drugged out of his mind and dangerous. He should be locked before he kills again.”

Greg felt the blood leave his face. “Was Smith harmed? Is that his blood?”John shook his head and looked at his hand.

“No…this is Sherlock’s. I had to stop him.”

Greg was trying desperately to wrap his head around what had happened. Sherlock had promised to never kill again, unless someone of his loved one was in danger. Why had he done it now?

“Did Smith threaten you in some way?”

“No! I fully admit he is really, really creepy, but he was inoffensive. We were talking when Sherlock took a scalpel and started waving it at Smith, saying he was a serial killer. Then Sherlock lunged and I blocked him.”

“Christ,” Greg ran a hand on his face. This was a terrible mess. He wondered what it would be of Sherlock’s pardon if Smith pressed charges. Would Mycroft be able to help him or it would be the end for Sherlock?

“Where is he now?”

“He was admitted here at the hospital on Smith’s suggestion. He is sedated now, sleeping off whatever he took,” John answered.

“Good. I think it’s best if you come with me to give your official statement,” Greg suggested, motioning toward the exit. John just nodded and together they left the hospital.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Back at NSY, Greg recorded John’s statement alone, still trying to understand why Sherlock had attacked Smith. John was sure they had it coming after what had happened with Magnussen, but still Greg was not so sure. The news Smith didn’t intend to press charges was a relief, but a small one.

After John’s left, Greg remained seated, deep in thought. He still had to call Mycroft, although he was pretty sure the news had already reached him.

There was something bothering him but he couldn’t say what it was. He just knew that he had seen Sherlock high on a few occasions, and even if he had been filled manic energy, he had been lucid. He also remembered the night they had bonded, when, while having been injected with enough drugs to transform two men in sex maniacs, he had kept his reason far longer than Greg.

He also knew that Sherlock had promised not to kill if not in dire circumstances, which clearly wasn’t the case with Smith. So why Sherlock had attacked him?

Greg’s eyes widened as a sudden thought crossed his mind: what if Sherlock had just faked his attack? What if he had counted on John to stop him? What if it had been part of his plan to save John as Mary had asked him to do?

Unbidden Mary’s word from the DVD returned to him, freezing the blood in his veins.

_“_ _Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell and make it look like you mean it. Go and pick a fight with a bad guy, put yourself in harm's way. If he thinks you need him, I swear he will be there.”_

Greg stood up so quickly the chair crashed to the floor and he rushed to the exit.

Damn it! Why couldn’t he see it before!?

Sherlock had done exactly what Mary had suggested. He had picked a fight with a bad guy and put himself in danger. Culverton Smith was really a serial killer and now Sherlock was in the hospital Smith had financed and probably knew very well, sedated and helpless, counting on John Watson to save him.

Problem was John hadn’t looked very inclined to come at Sherlock’s rescue. Instead he had seemed set to cut all his ties with Sherlock, which meant that his Alpha was alone and in mortal danger.

Greg drove as fast as he could toward Saint Caedwalla’s Hospital, but the traffic was terrible and he was forced to take a secondary road to avoid an incident.

When he finally arrived, he asked for Sherlock’s room number at the reception and ran up the stairs, all the while praying he wasn’t too late.

He had just turned a corner when he saw a policeman drag away a subdued and cuffed Culverton Smith.

“What happened?” Greg asked, panting.

“He tried to kill Sherlock Holmes, Sir.”

“Christ! Wait here, I’ll take him to the central.” Greg peered inside Sherlock’s room  and saw his Alpha was talking with John. They seemed civil to each other, so Greg dared to hope the worst had passed.

“Sherlock, John, are you okay guys? He asked, still standing by the door. He wanted to go at Sherlock’s bed side and check him with his hands and eyes to be sure he was fine, but it wasn’t the time.

The two men turned to look at him, but it was John who spoke for both of them. “Yes, Greg, we’re fine. I’m ready to give you another statement and deliver Smith’s recorded confession,” he raised a walking cane while throwing a dirty look a Sherlock. “While he will stay here at least until that bag of saline is finished. The doctors here ran some tests of him and they will decide when he can go home.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, possibly knowing it was best not to protest. Or maybe because he knew he needed medical attention.

Greg nodded, “I think it’s a wise decision. I’ll come later to take your statement. In the meantime, try to rest. You look like shit.”

“Thank you for the sweet words, Lestrade,” Sherlock said with sarcasm, but his soft eyes told a different story.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Later in the evening Greg returned to the hospital. Sherlock had texted him the doctors wanted to keep him under observation for a couple of days and asked Greg to fetch him some things from Baker Street.

When Greg arrived carrying a small duffel bag, he saw that Sherlock was trying to rise from the bed.

“Are you supposed to be up?” he asked, posing the bag over a chair.

“I need to go to loo. I refused the catheter; I hate that thing.”

“Yeah,” Greg smiled in understanding, “I don’t blame you.”

He approached the bed and tried to help Sherlock to stand up upright by putting his arm round his Alpha’s back, but a cry of pain stopped him.

“What is it?” he asked, looking closely at his mate. He noticed Sherlock had three stitches near his eye brow, and when he peered beneath his hospital gown, he saw his left side was one huge purple bruise. “Who did this to you? Smith?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but said in rough voice, “I really need to pee, Greg. Please help me to the loo.”

Greg did as asked, carefully holding Sherlock as they crossed the room and reached the bathroom. Once there, he watched worriedly as his mate peed blood.

“The doctors told me this could happen,” Sherlock said as he washed his hands. “My kidneys are strained because of the drugs, and the beating didn’t help. They want to monitor me for possible infections.”

Greg threw him a dirty glare. “I told you drugs were a bad idea.” He helped Sherlock back to bed. “Well, at least I hope it was worth it. For helping John, I mean.”

Sherlock gave him a strange look as he sat on the mattress and grimaced. Greg helped him to recline, and pulled up the covers.

Greg stared his Alpha’s eyes and said, his voice calm but determined, “I should be furious with you for what you did to yourself. Drugging yourself till your kidneys failed and putting yourself in the hands of a serial killer. However, right now I’m just relieved you are still alive and will recover, so I’ll let it pass. But don’t you ever dare to do something like this again…I’ve already been to your funeral and I don’t want to witness another.”

“Greg, while it’s true you’re fourteen years older than me, there is no guarantee I’ll survive you even if-”

“Shut up,” Greg growled, not wanting to even contemplate a life without his mate.

Sherlock obeyed, and Greg rewarded him with a soft kiss. “Sleep now. I’ll come back tomorrow after work. Please don’t escape, and don’t drive the nurses crazy.”

“I’ll behave, I promise.” Sherlock smiled.

Greg chuckled as he left the room, but as soon as he was alone, his smile fell. Sherlock’s bruises bothered him. They were the result of a savage beating, and according to Culverton Smith’s confession, he had tried to suffocate Sherlock by closing his mouth and nose.

So who had caused those bruises?

Unless…John’s bloody hands and his words, uttered earlier that day: _“_ _I really hit him, Greg. Hit him hard.”_

Greg went to the reception and asked to see the responsible of the hospital security. He flashed his badge and obtained to watch the records of what had happened in the morgue earlier that day, when Sherlock had faked the attack toward Smith.

What he saw made him see red. Clenching his fists he curtly thanked the security guy and went to retrieve his car from the parking.

He drove almost in autopilot to John’s house and, uncaring of the late hour or of waking little Rosie, he rang the bell.

He heard John come closer and ask, “Who is it?”

“Lestrade.”

John opened the door and let him in. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said lightly. Then he saw Greg’s face and frowned. “Is there something wrong with Sherlock?”

“Yeah, there most certainly is: his best friend beat him to a bloody pulp,” Greg all but shouted. “How could you, John?!”

“He was out of control...I had to stop him. I didn’t know it was a rouse,” John justified himself.

“Stop him? You did far more than that. You punched him so hard he needed stitches and then you kept kicking him while he was down, unable to defend himself, until they dragged you away. That’s not ‘stopping him’, that’s physical assault. God help me John, but if you ever dare to raise a finger on Sherlock again, I’ll have you arrested for assault charges, no matter what Sherlock might say in your defence. I wonder what the Social Services would think then, about leaving Rosie in your care.”

“Are you threatening me?” John hissed, clenching his fists.

“No. I’m warning you. I’m telling you have a problem with anger management. I’m telling you that beating a man until he pisses blood isn’t right, even if Sherlock is a self-sacrificing idiot that thought he deserved it. You need help, John,” Greg completed more calmly.

“Well, I’m getting it. I started seeing a new therapist today. Sherlock interrupted my session, but I’ve another appointment for tomorrow.”

Greg relaxed a bit. “That’s good, John.” A small smile. “Sorry if I was so hard, but I needed you to understand. You should see Sherlock’s torso. It’s a real mess, covered by purple bruises and that, mixed to his scars....God, what a horrible sight!”

“Scars?” John repeated puzzled. “Sherlock has just one scar, the bullet one on his chest...”

Greg looked at him surprised. “So you don’t know? He never told you? That’s why you told those words, back when he escaped from the hospital after he was shot.”

“What words? Greg, you aren’t making any sense.”

He signed. “Remember when we went in Baker Street, looking for Sherlock and wondering why he had escaped from the hospital?” John nodded. “Well, we were speculating Sherlock might have been trying to protect someone and you said ‘But why would he care? He's Sherlock. Who would he bother protecting?’ Do you remember?”

John nodded. “Yes, I remember saying something like that.”

“Back then I was surprised from that line but too worried to wonder why you could say such a thing, as if it was inconceivable Sherlock would go to great lengths and put himself in danger to protect someone. But now I see why. He never told you.”

“Told me what?!” John exclaimed, exasperated.

“Why he faked his death. Why he stayed away two years,” Greg said patiently.

“He told me he had to disband Moriarty’s network.”

“Yes, but did he explain why he had to do it? Why it was so important we all thought him dead?” Greg pressed.

“Uhm...I...was not in the mood to listen to him,” John shrugged.

“No, you were in the mood to attack him and almost broke his nose,” Greg commented with sarcasm, as his earlier anger resurfaced. “Had you let him talk, he would have told you that Moriarty had given the order to kill us – you, Mrs. Hudson and me – unless Sherlock took his own life. He would have told you he spent two years chasing the people who could still carry on that order, eliminating all of them until it was safe – for us – to return. And the scars I mentioned? Torture. He was beaten, whipped, cut with a knife and God only know what else, until a couple of days before his return. He had stitches on his back when you tackled him to the floor.”

John had the good sense to look down, embarrassed. “He never said anything.”

“Because he didn’t want for you to feel bad. He’s always like this...Sociopath my arse! Look what he did for you now!”

“You know about his plan?” John was clearly surprised.

“Yes. I knew from the beginning, and to be absolutely honest, I didn’t agree with it. But he was adamant that this was the only way.” Greg suddenly felt very tired. It was late and it had been a difficult day. “Keep it in mind when you see Sherlock.”

Speaking so, he walked to the door and left the house, hoping that his words would be heeded.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

Five days later Sherlock went to visit Greg, with a spring in his steps and eyes bright and clear. He was clean: from drugs, pain, guilt.

He hugged Greg and asked, “Fancy some dinner?”

“Sorry, I’ve just eaten.”

“Good, because I’m not hungry. We can move straight to the dessert,” Sherlock wiggled his brow in suggestive manner.

Greg smiled and joked, “Didn’t you have enough cake at your impromptu birthday party?”

“Nope, because my favourite was missing. But I had a lot of chocolate and now I need to burn some calories...”

Greg snorted at Sherlock’s flirting. “You’re so thin you’ll need at least ten cakes to regain the weight you lost in these weeks. However, since it’s your birthday, it’s best if you start unwrapping your present...” He started unbuttoning his shirt, enjoying the hungry way Sherlock’s eyes followed his every move.

Much later, after they had both burnt a lot of calories, and Greg was resting with his head over Sherlock’s chest, his Alpha murmured. “John said you talked to him...about the beating.”

“Yes, I did.” Greg confirmed, raising his head to look at his mate’s eyes.

“It wasn’t necessary, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A long pause, then Sherlock continued with a frown. “I thought it was my job as Alpha to protect you, not vice versa.”

Greg tilted his head and smiled softly. “You protected me for two years. Besides, I’m not a typical Omega, you aren’t a typical Alpha, and certain rules don’t apply to us.”

Sherlock grinned and whispered, “I love you Greg, you know it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know—and I love you too, even if you’re probably the cause of most of my grey hair.”

They laughed together, and Greg returned to pose his head on Sherlock’s chest. “I can’t wait for the day we’ll be able to tell we’re boded mates to anyone willing to listen.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his head and murmured, “That day will come soon, Greg. I can feel it.”

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

And so it was.

Two months later, standing in the grounds of the Holmes’ family half-crumbled ancestral home, Greg watched as Sherlock’s mad, secret sister was hauled inside a police van.

Sherlock had explained Eurus – that’s was the her name – had been the mind behind Moriarty’s ‘return’ and that she had played with them as a cat does with mouse for the whole day, in a horrific and deadly game. Greg knew there was much more to say, but it wasn’t the moment.

Right now he had to make sure Eurus Holmes was taken back to Sherrinford Island. So he turned toward a young constable and asked, “The helicopter ready?”

“Mm-hm,” came the distracted answer.

“Let's move her, then,” Greg ordered, but the other man, an Omega he realized, didn’t move.

His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, who was talking to John.

“Is that him, sir, Sherlock Holmes?” the young man asked, awe clear in his voice.

Greg smiled. “Fan, are you?”

“Well, he's a great man, sir.”

Greg looked at his Alpha, shaken but not broken by the day events and said, “ No, he's better than that. He's a good one—and he is my Alpha.”

The young policeman’s reaction was almost comical, as he quickly lowered his eyes and ran to the van.

Greg threw another fond and proud look to Sherlock, then followed him.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

It was almost dawn when he returned home. Eurus Holmes was again behind bars and unable to cause more death, and Mycroft’s men had swamped Sherriford and taken matters in their hands.

Greg had been quite happy to leave everything in their care, because that place made him shiver, especially after hearing from Mycroft the details of their ordeal at Eurus’ hands.

He sighed with relief as he locked his door behind him. He was tired, but also worried about Sherlock.  The lights of the living room were on, meaning his Alpha was there.

He quickly went to his bedroom, and found Sherlock in bed, lying on his side, his open eyes fixed on him.

“Hello,” Greg said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t...I’ve not been able to relax enough to fall asleep.”

Greg nodded. “I can imagine.”

“Did you see Mycroft? How is he?”

Greg started disrobing as he answered the question, “He’s fine and back to his house. Anthea – or whatever is her name – will stay with him to make sure he’s right.”

“Good,” murmured Sherlock.

“And you? How do you feel?” Greg enquired, as he sat on the mattress to remove his shoes.

“Could be better... Memories of Victor are returning, and with them the pain and the guilt I suffered back then. I wasn’t able to save him, Greg.” Sherlock whispered, eyes too bright.

Greg leant sideway on the bed to put his arm around Sherlock. “Mycroft told me everything about it. You were just a child, Sunshine. Too young to carry such a responsibility. It wasn’t your fault if he died.”

Sherlock smiled sadly, “May be one day I’ll believe it if you keep on repeating it.”

“Then I’ll do so.” Greg gave him a small kiss, before going to the bathroom to wash and get ready for bed.

When he returned Sherlock was still awake, his jaw set in a way that screamed of tension.

 _He will never be able to sleep,_ Greg thought as he slipped beneath the covers. _I need to do something about it_.

Greg used his right arm to pull Sherlock closer, and they pressed together, sharing their warmth. He caressed Sherlock’s naked back, in motions meant to be soothing and relaxing, but the feel of his Alpha’s skin brushing against his own, caused an unexpected bout of lust to zip along his nerves.

He moaned softly and Sherlock, attuned as he was with him, encouraged him by rubbing against him. Greg moaned again, rocking his hips to press his now hard cock against the other man’s belly. It was then he realized Sherlock was hard too.

They looked into each other’s eyes and Sherlock murmured, “We shouldn’t do this…not tonight… Doesn’t seem right.”

“You’re wrong…This is the most right thing in the world,”  Greg replied, speaking with his lips very close to Sherlock.  “It’s an affirmation of life over death. One of the oldest, most primal reasons to have sex.”

Greg waited for Sherlock to respond. He had no intention to press him if he was unwilling, even if he thought sex could help his Alpha to relax and sleep.

Sherlock finally nodded slowly and Greg smiled at him. He pushed away the covers, helped his mate to get rid of his pajama bottoms and got rid of his own.

“Now relax,” he murmured, “and let me do all the work. You just enjoy, okay?”

“Okay…”

Greg lowered his head over Sherlock’s chest, kissing along the contours of his pectoral muscles. He spent a moment sucking on each nipple, before tracing a line of kisses along  Sherlock’s right arm, sucking on the fingers, and twirling his tongue around them in a way that made the other man’s cock twitch.

Greg let go of Sherlock’s hand, then slid up to kiss his mouth. His Alpha responded hungrily, pushing his tongue into Greg’s mouth, as he rubbed against him.

Greg licked and bit his way slowly down Sherlock’s chest, past his stomach, to his navel. He moved on the side, to pay attention to the Alpha’s hips and then to his thighs, completely ignoring his cock.

Sherlock groaned, clearly disappointed and Greg moved up again for another kiss, swallowing  the moan with his lips. He wrapped his fingers around the Alpha’s cock hand milked it for a while.

 “Greg...don’t tease...” Sherlock’s breathed.

“I’m not. Just making sure you’re ready.”

Greg straddled Sherlock’s hips, and reached back, taking hold of his cock. Greg slid backwards and slowly sat down on Sherlock, taking him inside. It was his turn to moan, at the exquisite feeling of his Alpha, a feeling that never got old, no matter how many times they did this.

Leaning forward, bracing his arms on either side of Sherlock’s as he whispered, “You feel so good, Sunshine.”

“You too...”

Greg began to move, sliding back and forth, and Sherlock let him do most of the work, occasionally rolling his hips under him.

Gradually their lovemaking grew more frantic. Sherlock, no longer willing to simply lie back, took control of Greg, wrapping his hands around the Omega hips to help him to rise and fall at a faster, harder pace.

They moved together, striving toward the same goal, pants, moans and groans filling the bedroom until they both climaxed.

Greg sagged, resting over Sherlock for a few moments. Then he rose on sore thighs and he pulled off. He took the covers he had pushed away before, pulled them over their bodies and dropped down onto the bed next to Sherlock. His Alpha’s arm immediately sneaked around his shoulders to pull him closer.

Silence settled over them, broken only by the sound of their breaths. Greg let his mind drift as sleep slowly crept over him. He knew the next weeks would be difficult for Sherlock, because a trauma as then one he had suffered wasn’t easy to overcome. But he also knew Sherlock was aware he wouldn’t be alone in this battle; that Greg would be at his side every step of the way.

Because they were an Alpha and his Omega.

Because even if their bonding had been accidental, it felt as if it had meant to be.

Because they were Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade; they loved each other and nothing would ever change that.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this last chapter was worth the wait. :)  
> My heartfelt thank you to all the readers who followed this story, gave kudos and wrote comments. It was really great to see this story so well received.
> 
> And now: I'm in need of a betareader for 3 other stories, 2 Johnlocks and 1 Sherlock/Mary (my favourite among the three). If someone is interested/willing in giving me a hand, a would really appreciate it. I mostly need help to correct typos, grammar mistakes and "Italianisms" (IE, weird line constructions)...I think in English when I write, but my thought patterns are influenced by the language I learned to think with, Italian.
> 
> Please drop a comment if you are interested in helping and I'll give you my email address.
> 
> Thank you!


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